Navel

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I drive by a red farmhouse 
in the setting sun. Orange morning 
darts through rippled glass. 
High-glossed linoleum 
wears into mottled color. Oranges 
studded with cloves perfume buffet drawers. 

I imagine Gram’s baptism 
in the irrigation ditch 
way out back, 
follow the road that turns 
like a cord until the white church 
appears. 

There old men utter oracles 
about the Holy Ghost, 
about the body and blood 
of sacrament 
and how Gawwd rules 
in our lives. 

I remember the navel oranges 
at Christmas time, 
how I turned each one before eating 
to the depression like a navel 
on the underside and imagined 
the undeveloped fruit. 

The road threads from the church
to the blue school 
that seemed an orphanage. 
Oddly, here I learned to pray
against the taunts and whims of peers,
against the measuring, falling short, 

against devils 
and souls in hell 
that could be prayed out, 
souls severed from wholeness,
left waiting 
for a chance connection. 

Just as the sun sets, I pass by 
the road, a spindle I revolve on.
I roll the window, 
reach outside the car, 
lay my palm 
against the sun’s ghost.