By Anna Trevathan
once i was trying to explain to someone what it was like when you were gone,
and i told them that it was like taking all of the skin off of an orange,
digging through the small white layers of veins,
and ripping the bare orange in half.
to discover that the person you used to share them with isn’t here.
that for the rest of your life, you will eat it
you will carry this orange and it will stain
your heart, your hands and the smell will linger
and it smells ripe and sweet to spite you
because they will not smile at you,
and grab that orange slice out of your hand,
instead they will lie in the ground,
and i will spread orange seeds across a grave,
praying that the seeds turn into an orange tree,
and i can share my oranges with them once again.
