• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
Image by


How did I get here?
Don’t ask. I’m just

Not unlike the rest of you
resting as you do
where and when you do.

I have a certain insouciance.
Note how bold my orange,
how deep the green of my leaf—
an appendage still pert, still straight
like the brim of a hat.

It tells a direction.
There is here and there.

As if I have somewhere to go. But
I won’t budge from my post.
I’m a good pointer, posed up here
precarious and nonchalant
on the etched curve of an elbow of putty,
atop a daring dollop of black clay.

You can still see the artist’s fingerprints.



I might have gone into a basket
or ended up segmented in a salad.
How brief my fate would have been.

How did I get here?
Is that even a question worth asking?
I am the rounded fruit of someone’s imagination—
a challenge to gravity and gravitas.