orange tree

You smell like oranges and hot skin. 

You are withered and brown and old and helpless and innocent.

Mewling at the breast of your bastard mother, a country that doesn’t love you. 

You are thick and delicious and sweaty. 

I expect sweet orange juice and instead taste salt. 

I am leaving you behind, riding on your shoulders

or your stubbly face.

I am telling you to go. 

Nothing is happening, no welcome home, no birthday party; 

no wish granted, I don’t care what you want.

Come to me here where I am sleeping,

like a secret, in the night. 

 

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