Oranges: you'll have to grow your own, love, feed them
finger-cut, moon-flow, any blood will do. The neighbour's cat
—just say coyotes got her—
and mice who skitter now across her silence.
Migrant workers' daughters when your tree grows
thirsty. Say coyotes got them
—and just don't take a blonde.
When fruit hangs heavy, love, copper-bright as screams
grind leftover bones to meal. Add baking soda
and somebody's sacred food (their children's captive sweat
adds notes of salt and steam; their childrens'
hollow eyes bring out the bitter).
Follow your normal recipe from there. Invite the neighbours, and match
napkins to their baby's dappled fur. They'll taste
that citrus bite, love. Tell them
it's a welcome home.
I'll be there.
