Citrus

*Read while peeling a clementine alone in the summer*

Clementines: citrus pure scent lingering

Natural nectars, artificially flavored, paved

roads on my tongue between tastebud towns:

Homan Avenue. State line. Four pack of

Mandarins: plasticky citrus slices soaking

in 100% fruit juice until you made us taste them—

—Blindfolded. The tart bite like a tear in my map,

a citric acid detour directed towards

Cuties: supple juicy citrus salivating

with caustic craving. My pasts’ perverted

pleasure. Oil glands’ fog fragrant rear

-views with olfactory flavors of

Grapefruits: mature citrus rinds “looking

4fitmen” (me). The waxy walls that separate

our segments preserve false flesh under fresh

Flavedo. Forgotten fruits, replaced by

Oranges: citrus blood bath. Unpeel me.

Not gently. Or with care. Discard my skin

in old alley bins and basement bedrooms,

picking my pith to pieces. Pop my pulp.

Citrus sour tainted my tongue,

soured my tooths’ paste’s taste.

*Read it again while peeling a clementine after having sex in the summer*