i do everything with oranges except eat them. they say love is in the peeling, is in the separating of the segments, one by one / slow & wholesome day at a time. who will do that for me? with all the white bits still attached—i miss her, all too much, & still lie / awake for the feeding. a horse clips down the street & i have no apples. just a body full of warm milk laced with honey or something else that stings a little, with more sweetness than i can take. at least it's something / i have tried. i've known of people to not even do that. i give them their space. during which / a friend & i spend time together & afterwards, my calves ache for days. this is love, the good grit & dirt of it all. we have bananas & apricots & we know of each other's pain. lay on the bed together & after, still laugh the same. my mother was wrong about so much. still, i can't see that / oftentimes. i am on edge & i'm not sure why. i know i lie / awake for the feeding that will not come. see, both hunger & fullness make my stomach hurt. i don't talk about this—there are other fruits to peel—finally, i allow myself to feel the sticky innards—& / then rosemarie says she is sorry for the feeling of what might have happened to me, & that maybe next time i can look her in the eye. i tell her i'll try—i don't / & all gone is this hold of mine
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