In the fog before church
the cafes are closed,
the good grocers also
save one in which I know
no Spanish and am sorry.
How strange it is to apologize here.
Andalusia. Her mute sun is lost on me.
Her seasons and signals of seasons
have lapsed these six or seven centuries.
I cannot trust Sevilla’s orange trees
in their columns on the Feria road.
I cannot trust the orange of their oranges.
Lady living here: The locals know
they are not to be tasted, or are to be tasted
if you fuss to peel and jelly them.
Knowing no better I thank her.
I still cannot accept. Not from a jar.
I will have the outsides of those oranges
bitter as they are. Not the candied rest.
-Netanel Schwartz
Illustration courtesy of Alicia Gan