Orange Season
She hung fat on a citrus tree,
sprouting like a hip jut,
like the tall grass and itch weed.
The sweating sun drunk her up and splaid ‘er bare,
sliced her clean open before
the pecking birds could close in.
An orchard is a sea side,
so if the ships could, they would
swashbuckle the great ocean of trees
and lick the seafoam of blossoms that
sprayed upon their greedy lips.
Instead their rusted Volkswagens
watch at bay from the back roads.
The pickup trucks mouth the days
till the ripe time.
Young navel, that oil green coat
doesn’t fit like it used to, and summer’s the
kinda lover who licks at your skin.
So when the men come with the topaz winds,
with their sunken buckets and gall,
should it be you who dip into the wharf
of their palm? Should it be you who bows
down, who twirls for those brutes who
like them too soft, too soon?
An orchard is a seaside,
stretched thinner than the thick of here.
So when you begin to seep,
to wrinkle and prune.
When you, filled with your many months
fall at the Earth’s hip,
amongst the tall grass and itch weed.
Will they not see your beauty then,
Is the fruit not sweetest rotten?
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