one. two. three.
cutting oranges in half
grown in green gardens
of the citrus Tuscany
ripen in honey
– cloying grin
washed in sin
four. five. six.
steel sliding through
hands turning blue
faster and faster
a drop of blood glints
on the orange skin
rotting from within
seven. eight. nine.
night by night by night
bare feet on the kitchen floor
she’s squeezing oranges
before the breaking dawn
hits the front porch
his heavy boots step on the lawn
one by one. by one.
oranges fall down
their bare skin
hits the ground
her grip tightens on the knife
the orange pulp is dripping
when the door opens wide
a man greets his wife
REDBIRD WRITER 