Blossoms of the Lips

…then let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name.

Hebrew 13:15

I’m hysterical. Sitting there, Paul taps his lips. Nothing. He gets up out of the shade, he taps again, nothing in the sun. Against the tree. Nothing. He breaks a branch, and this time, something. A hollow, almost white, sound drips. ‘Hear that? What is that?’ Paul spits pieces of sand.

He takes a scarf, it wraps around his mouth. A bow sits beneath his nose. It flutters in the wind, his hands dangle like lace. He looks to the sky, he falls flat. The bow wiggles like a mustache, a little mustache itching his lips. I hear a moan, it is a light hum, Paul’s socks roll in the dirt.

I watch the socks tumble in the wind. I loose sight as they cross between trees, then, I see them trickling back. Is that them? I think. Yes. I can smell them. But they roll on, the white kicking up dust, till I see a little red flash. More flashes. Oranges. The socks turned into oranges.

Spinning, I watch the fruits. Across the dust the fruits shave. The bounce, one off the other, force little pink spots to appear.

I look at Paul, Paul is turning yellow. I watch his hands melt to his sides, he has turned into a banana. But the scarf sits still, little red strings dangle in a ring.

And as I turn looking for the oranges, I turn in a circle, looking again at Paul. Two little pink-orange dots sit below the bow. Streams of liquid drip along the banana ridges. And then I see a little dark yellow spot, the banana has peeled a little. A little fruit has split just above Paul’s bow.

‘A little fruit of the lips,’ I hear Paul say, ‘a little sacrifice.’

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About Rene Diebenkorn

Lifetime Artist. ETC.

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