Peel an orange, set
a candle in the rind-
let the smoke melt
the pith into an oil

sweeter than palm.
Before we die,

we taste almonds;
we wake to a lover
slipping a tongue
in our ear;

we confess our sins
in hushed breath
to slats
of grated light.

Dab the oil on the forgotten
parts of yourself:
the eyelid's creases,
the finger's rungs,

the patch of jawbone
hidden by the earlobe.
Saints forget themselves
in their sufferings,

so we recite their names
to remind them
how pain can be pronounced:
oilfield, blood orange, watercress.

Nothing we believe in
mixes: it sifts
the liquor from lime, deposits
drops of sweat

that slide like rosary beads:
a grease that washes everything
clean but us.
Take the candle wax-

spread it on
your lover's lips. Faith
is tasting flesh
through all coverings-

through organ pipe,
through silk,
through our thin skin that keeps
all we are from spilling out.