Holding the orange, peeled and whole,
out towards her nose, close but not touching,
his eyes peeled also, dead like the rind,
his lips round with hate, with spite, with contempt.
The juice runs between his fingers,
the pulp oozes, the sound below the capability of ears
but present nevertheless like death
residing in the first thumps of being.
He wipes his hands on her clothes,
her face and in her hair, ruining the look
she had sought that morning and he turns,
leaving without closing the door.
There is no blood, just juice,
the ruin of an orange on the floor,
the rind curling like the discarded skin
of grown snake around her bare feet.
He will return
and she will let him
the way the orange has no choice
but hangs from the branch
lost in a deception
innocence and fear have no account for.