The Horn of Plenty Sits Empty
       

Last night a windstorm came through and felled all the oranges.
To see them in the yard was a metaphor I didn't want to make—

one about stars and want and rot. No choice but to toss them
in the compost bin. We had so much,

I couldn't mourn the loss of the few
bruised fruit, some already carved to bowls by squirrels.

Other things that are orange: the sun sometimes, traffic cones,
marigolds, carrots, monarchs, goldfish, amber, fire.

Now, say abundance.

To hold someone to your breast is to make them a god,
which is to say, something hollow and full of longing.

Wrap a stone or overripe orange in a swaddling blanket,
hide the child away, keep your want

far from what could take it. Refuse to show anyone
where it is kept. Instead, place the empty horn

on the counter. Pile full the horn with fruit and flowers and
honey, knowing full well it will become a place of rot.

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Copyright © 2019 Meghan McClure All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission