Orange

Beside toaster crumbs and ramen packet corners,

Alongside bottle dregs of rum and hardened hand warmers,

A pair of fists lay prone and ice protrudes from uncut nails,

He hides them deep in pockets but the knuckle scars prevail.

Instead he counts from one to three, and pushes down a memory,

Though this time pressure overwhelms, and all protrusions pluck the helm.

Too much, he says, to see things the way you feel,

Too much, he repeats, to let simple things pepper the pill,

Too much, he cries, for the albatross weighing down your head, 

Why does it wander for moments ‘fore the abridged takes its stead?

One add one won’t make two. It’s nothing—minute, 

Lonesome and singular, so I’ll speak the truth,

Of the one that got a perry, and made me drink it slow,

Two who made a platypus with spare denim they sewed,

Three and four were cherries that I gambled on to go, 

The next would doubt a clouded sun, even if it melted snow.

And I, once free from poor fortune, refreshed in later evenings, 

Set in secret lyricisms and their subdued meanings,

From which we go then, you and I,

You, gone, and I,

Etherised upon a table, pining as a royal tannenbaum, 

While the ripe-at-home plum rots, and synesthesia sings a syrup clown, 

A Christingle singed to potpourri for the boy who clutches a tangerine, 

His palm is waxed, his fingers bleed, 

He holds back tears as he shovels in sweets,

The ribbon binds his flesh to peel, 

He grits his teeth and stands so still 

that not one nerve is left unthawed, 

His veins will wilt, the church shall pause 

And pour font water on the fruit he bears,

Yet he’ll count to three ‘till he no longer cares,

And years will pass, but he will not,

He’ll stay aglazed, and think of what 

He could’ve been, sans citrus’ sting,

If pith was placed in a food waste bin,

And time was a lightness that could stand to be,

Scarred on the countertop, counting to three.

-------------------------------------

Here is my second installation to the week's anthology. It's far from perfect, however it still follows stylistically from the prior post, straying only structurally to reinforce the jarring graphology of the uncontrollable. It's another poem I believe would benefit from a recorded reading, especially for those more suited to prose. Feel free to leave a comment or message if that is something you would appreciate. It's a pleasure to make these posts, and a privilege to see so many people interacting (especially those I see from around the globe, however you have found yourself here). See you tomorrow.