Who left the upturned orange peels on the lawn
and peppered the frozen grass without apology?

Mocked with a miniature summer
once wrapped up in this flesh,
now ripped and discarded:
a tight dress the Sun wore to her high school prom.

It curls alone.
Won’t be worn again.

Who swallowed the wedged light and left the bragging rind?

Grooved juice
once held by such thin skin
teeth could split its intimacy with a smile,
sucking day into a mouth.

The ground shutters with jealousy.
with regret.

Whose fingernails smell of lost sunlight?

Telltale tips that dug themselves
into the membrane of a smaller star
and jerked backwards.

The Sun pulls up her gray coverlet,
seeing her newborn decapitated
on a field of thoughtless fruit eaters.

Was it you
who broke into the sinuous sphere?
Did you convince yourself it was ripe and ready?

You
who left the taunting peel,
not even orange side up beneath February feet—

you
who’ve swallowed sweetness
and now grind its casings into the grass—

you were right.

I have waited too long.

 

 

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