OrangesOrangesOranges by ~MGBarrera
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to do
with the rest of his life knowing:
Words are not worth the time.
He will wake up one day with crushed petals
in his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.
The gardenias tell the silent boy's mother
stories of noise and white noise. They slip
her nightmares like a