Why I Don’t Like Oranges; a childhood memory


I was once given
an orange.
“Here is the sun,”
my grandmother said.

So round,
so beautiful,
I held it
in my palms.

“Eat it”

Stunned
it didn’t burn,
I pealed way the shine,
saw the innards,
and popped them into my mouth.
With bursts of juice,
the sun orgasmed between my teeth.

I loved the sun.

Three days
it rained,
it stormed,
knocking the power on and off.
The clouds took over the sky
gray and dull,
a blanket
over the diseased
sun’s corpse.

I cried–

that type of thing
can scar a child.

It tasted so magnificent
death, destruction
so delicious–
was I a murderer?
We were going die.
I was going to Hell.

I wailed.

Finally,
my grandmother acknowledge me;
“What’s wrong?”

I killed the sun

“You killed the sun?”
she laughed.

“It’ll come back,
don’t yeh worry”

she walked away.

Under her breathe
(I listened carefully
for her hidden truths.)
voiceless
she hissed

“What a pussy.”

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2 thoughts on “Why I Don’t Like Oranges; a childhood memory

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