Literature
on forcing passion.
imagine trees of tangerines,
heavy sagging suns on all the branches.
rip one down, introduce it to
vivisection
(though dead or alive, it
never cries out),
and
squeeze
until pulp like entrails
forces itself between your dripping fingers.
stare blankly at the mess
and attempt to clean it,
succeed only in
staining your clothes golden.
work the designs against your skin
until the mistakes become tattoos
and the rinds before you look
less like refuse and more like
fresh-hatched eggshells.
as the morning scent stings your senses,
reach up.
don't look,
just touch, and
rip down another.
and another.
and another.
