The most ragged tear in my palm
came from trying to save
a half-gallon jug of orange juice.

With wet hands, I caught it
just as it touched the stainless
sink--an ecstatic communion--

splash and sediment,
sudden runs of red through pulp,
glass glittering in the flow.

The form of yellow juice
was whole for an instant
in my hands, a liquid chalice

I could seize but not lift up,
a dream of glistening lights,
until I turned and offered

the magic gift to my son,
who could not see
what had been there,

only the sanguinary flap,
the mealy flesh laid open,
and the surprise in my face.