Ahrend Torrey

 
Geese Wander to the Pond

dip their beaks into water, lift their necks to drink, and the droplets that fall live only a moment in the air, then drip back to the pond, to the body where all living things, settle. The geese pull at the grass, flute, then drink again—They will not be remembered by us for the beautiful lives they live—Oh mortal consciousnesses— but to the soil they’ll be remembered, and to the water where they dip their beaks.... They’ll become

Minneola Oranges

This might be the most difficult task for us in postmodern life: not to look away from what is actually happening. To put down the iPad and the email and the phone. To look long enough so that we can look through it—like a window. —Marie Howe

Oh crow, look what you have done. You have cawed to the prespring air. You have made me feel that spot of my youth again: the green world soon to appear—soon to wrap and flourish for us all.

And you, elderly lady with the white Maltese. With its hair that needs to be combed, and its little red boots so the salts from the ice melt does not sting its paws. You recognize me: you say, “Hello,” and make me feel the very thing that I am—another person walking to get beans for dinner, and paprika, and the one soon to impulsively buy those vibrant Minneola oranges, tucked away at the market, next to the overripe papaya.

And you, tamale lady, who always arrives at the entrance before 3, sitting in your lawn chair—“I have tamales” you say, with your rich accent— “I have tamales”: and I palm my pockets and don’t have cash. And you precious lady—you make me so guilty, so terrible with your tender eyes for not having money to give you.

And oh, what I would give to take home your tamales overflowing with peppers and chicken fat, and open them to the newfound air to steam; and bite into what all of this means, what all of this is really saying this 24th of February in a crumbing world—

You’re alive—you’re alive and the people are wonderfully kind— and the crowds are still singing—and the Minneola oranges in a few days will be even more sweet—or wait, maybe not as sweet—No definitely not as sweet, as Today.

Ahrend Torrey is the author of This Moment (Pinyon Publishing, 2024). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Good River Review, and The Greensboro Review, among others. He lives in Chicago with his husband, where he enjoys exploring the nearby forests and dunes.

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