Recorded by the author at The Mark Twain House & Museum, July 26, 2024
Sticky syrup glosses my lips
from the pile of
rinds scattered on the countertop.
Drained of color not-so-bright
but white in the face.
Raw and bitter
dance on my teeth
piercing for the
not-so-innocent who
tease my tongue with acidic sweetness.
One—two—three
I devour without remorse.
Dripping juice
on my not-so-delicate face.
Squeezed of nectar.
With intimate hands,
thick skin peeled back
reveals a fleshy interior.
I pick apart with not-so-gentle fingers
torn weakly into segments.
To clean up the crime
requires a warm rag and dish soap.
Scoop the remains into a pail.
Not-so-forgiving this time around–
the oranges were never the problem.