She Handed Me an Orange Before We Danced
After the Polish of Szymon Zimorowic
(1608-29)
She handed me an orange before we danced,
promised to show how easily it peeled,
if I would stick around. But as I pulled
her across the floor, spinning great distances,
my hand coming to rest in the small of her back,
still gripping it-the orange lit up from within,
growing hot and glowing, burning through the thin
coating of skin, scorching, leaving a black
residue everywhere. Now I know, still dancing,
unable to break free, how goddamn easily
the heart melts. And how silly it is to link
love to Venus and think of it as her offspring,
not some wildcat or bear from some desolate peninsula
weaned on birch bark, in search of blood to drink.
Rozyna mi w taneczku pomarancze dala…
