Elizabeth Sochko Hussain

ORANGERIE

Every still life cuts me open. Sliver of pear, wax-drip,
flexible rabbit. Pretend I wasn’t capable of touch
in such cold. Or compliance. Your hands there,

tender, when you gutted the bird. Swift enough
to make peonies blush. Rosy rouge of me gone
going like leather. Like a rind, a river peeled off

in three pebbled parts. Windswept, auburn. Out
for nothing in one patch of village field, I noticed
ghosts buttoning their blouses. In each painting

that hurts me, an arranged tabletop.
Fruit remains. I hate how often I think
of the he in the garden. How unforgiving

summer is as it dies. Remarkable,
an overgrown grove warm in its cage.

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