the orange given me by your mother
as I walked out the door;
eyes awash with tears that she
believed – in error – were lunatic
tears of gratitude for an overripe fruit:
eaten at the end of lunch
in segments, knifed free
of its pithy membrane; a wrecked
boned body collapsed in a puddle
of sweet juice – drunk
in eery similitude to the way I drank you.
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