In the winter
I ask myself: who do you want to be?
I contemplate getting a perm
because sometimes you just need to
look a little different
to how you see yourself
to see yourself.
I think about this when I walk
past lemon trees turned orange
from the sun.
The lingering of
warmer months.
I think of oranges cut
into wedges by my mother.
A basket of fruit is a gift
but a bowl of cut fruit is love.
And in the distance
between us, I wonder: who
is cutting her fruit? How
many oranges in her kitchen
are left whole?
I imagine my thumbs
squishing themselves between
skin and flesh, juice
trickling down my wrist.
Later, I smell of
citrus and fall asleep
to a memory.
I do a hundred things
before I sit down to write. I wait
for the sun to rise and set
and fill the time with motions,
with muscle memory. I ask
these hands: who do you want to be?
And there is no reply.
Later, I catch light falling
through leaves.
Later, I watch Saturn through
a telescope and dream of her rings.
And I am filled with
knowing.
