Kiss of the Sun by Mary Ruefle

Kiss of the Sun
Mary Ruefle

If, as they say, poetry is a sign of something
among people, then let this be prearranged now,
between us, while we are still peoples: that
at the end of time, which is also the end of poetry
(and wheat and evil and insects and love),
when the entire human race gathers in the flesh,
reconstituted down to the infant’s tiniest fold
and littlest nail, I will be standing at the edge
of that fathomless crowd with an orange for you,
reconstituted down to its innermost seed protected
by white thread, in case you are thirsty, which
does not at this time seem like such a wild guess,
and though there will be no poetry between us then,
at the end of time, the geese all gone with the seas,
I hope you will take it, and remember on earth
I did not know how to touch it it was all so raw,
and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd
or anything else so that I am of it,
I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.

SELECTED BY SAM HERSCHEL WEIN

Mary Ruefle always reminds me that poetry is a living, breathing beast, a goofy but sad monster here to make me laugh through the devastation, help me believe in the world again. She is the master of surprise, the queen of the unexpected line break or turn, and most importantly, she doesn’t own a computer. She is THAT PRESENT!!! In her reality!!! She has devoted her life to her creativity, and it shows, in each and every world she constructs, in every poem.

I chose “Kiss of the Sun” because it’s a poem about what a poem can be, and those are always my favorite. Will poetry end when humanity ends? And will there be someone waiting there with an orange for me? And who will it be, and will I “remember on earth / I did not know how to touch it it was all so raw” ?? Sometimes I feel like Ruefle sees what poetry is capable of more than anyone else. That language is limited, it isn’t the orange quenching our thirst at the end of the world, or the sun kissing our skin ’til we’re ripped open. And yet, Ruefle uses these shortcomings of poetry as a strength, reminding us in this poem that we should be there gifting citrus to each other, that our juices, end of world or not, still linger in each other’s mouths. There is still love between us all.

ABOUT SAM HERSCHEL WEIN

Sam Herschel Wein (he/they) is a lollygagging plum of a poet who specializes in perpetual frolicking. They have an MFA from the University of Tennessee and were the recipient of a 2022 Pushcart Prize. Their third chapbook, Butt Stuff Flower Bush, is out now with Porkbelly Press. He co-founded and edits Underblong Journal. They have recent work in Poetry Northwest, The Los Angeles Review, and Puerto del Sol, among others.