'Mi Pequeña Naranja'

There is little peace found as days pass.

Yet in your bed, 7am, morning light

cutting through the makeshift blinds and

over our bodies. Yours has left a deep imprint

that I want refilled. The scream of the gas stove 

heating bitter coffee is a distant sigh yet I can’t

focus. The tangerine sits coy in my palm.

Tangerine. Satsuma. Clementine. Mandarina.

In different languages we enjoy her.

You’re busy. My nail etches into 

The skin, an upwards peeling motion.

Microscopic, the spritz of citrus perfume

stick to my fingers, I bring them to my mouth.

I wish it was yours.