iii. clementines

a smattering of pores like sunspots and

a hint of muddy eucalyptus,

mesh bag digging crisscross ridges

into waxy skin. spongy, soft

but not quite, green stubs browning

like the windswept maples

that line our walk home.

we buy clementines from the

supermarket down the street and

eat them on the way back.

the sky is a godforsaken gray

(as it always is around here, i’ve

learned), clouds swollen with unshed

tears. shrouds of desolation.

i peel a clementine and the juice

spritzes my wrist. i stare down

at the ragged rinds, remind

myself supermarket, supermarket,

supermarket. and then i don’t

think of him at all.

◀ ii. new apartment iv. autobiography ▶