Oranges

I’ll choose for myself next time who I’ll reach out and take as mine, in the way I might stand at a fruit stall having decided to ignore the apples the mangoes and the kiwis but hold my hands above a pile of oranges as if to warm my skin before a fire. Not only have I chosen oranges, but I’ll also choose which orange — I’ll test a few for firmness scrape some rind off with my fingernail so that a citrus scent will linger there all day. I won’t be happy with the first one I pick but will try different ones until I know you. How will I know you? You’ll feel warm between my palms and I’ll cup you like a handful of holy water. A vision will come to me of your exotic land: the sun you swelled under the tree you grew from. A drift of white blossoms from the orange tree will settle in my hair and I’ll know. This is how I will choose you: by feeling you smelling you, by slipping you into my coat. Maybe then I’ll climb the hill, look down on the town we live in with sunlight on my face and a miniature sun burning a hole in my pocket. Thirsty, I’ll suck the juice from it. From you. When I walk away I’ll leave behind a trail of lamp-bright rind.