The Girl and Her Orange Tree
Oranges hang from my hair and they
feed me full—these fruits all alive and
ripened through. All young things sweet in their
sticky shine, their wet desire. I am plump enough to
feed me full—these fruits all alive and
ripened through. All young things sweet in their
sticky shine, their wet desire. I am plump enough to
birth something good with a rind circumference of
cream spit and tears. Fingers leaking warm want,
lips sickly sweet, myself bloated with the
brandings of hot rotten flesh. I starve myself pretty to
cream spit and tears. Fingers leaking warm want,
lips sickly sweet, myself bloated with the
brandings of hot rotten flesh. I starve myself pretty to
allow a miracle: mouth soured halves,
suck at juices licking off hair ends. Tear at
rusted globes till they fray, lap up their
hardened dried remains.
suck at juices licking off hair ends. Tear at
rusted globes till they fray, lap up their
hardened dried remains.
I think of a day I can stand a fruitless whole. To bear
branches that feed none; buried seed deep in my throat
thrumming a dead beat as I long myself to be
hollowed clean, to be right.
branches that feed none; buried seed deep in my throat
thrumming a dead beat as I long myself to be
hollowed clean, to be right.