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.
No comments:
Post a Comment