so there is this boy,
he grows up on an orange farm.
it is ancestral inheritance, he says.
he is fond of the oranges he has seen
his parents grow,
yet, there are times he will have anything
but an orange.
but, they are his love.
somehow, they are him— he smells of oranges.
every thread of his clothing carries
the tangy taste of oranges,
as though a jar of orange jam has been left open.
— he smells of oranges, so much so,
that even his father took their pulpy essence to his
grave, when they buried him last week.
YOU ARE READING
through your words of mime
Poetryit's through your words of mime, that conversations themselves lost track of their time. · part three of woven shreds.
