Fruit

He holds an orange

and looks at it intently

caressing with his thumb the textured exterior

“bumpy in all the right places”

he says with his eyes

piercing each pore

to the core he looks

but not for a heart or juicy fruit

he searches for a vessel beneath the skin

to open up violently and fill in.

He squeezes the orange

affectionately

the tips

of his fingers flash white for a brief moment

threatening to dig sharply into the young fruit

he is testing

whether the pulp has any give to it

what it can withstand

how far he can impose upon it

his desires

for fruit.

The orange begs

to peel it

but he does not

instead he turns her around in the palm of his hand

which is warm and smushy

but dry always

letting it feel his skin

letting it get hot from the slow gyral contact

minimizing friction

feigning generosity

subjecting the orange to his blank gaze.

The gaze that expertly veils truth

the gaze of pretend kindness

in the mouth, in the nose.

The gaze that is dead in the eyes

that looks for one thing only

“how can you be of use to me”

the dead eyes say

“you are an object”

and the orange pales

but does not wither;

My father’s orange tree bore no fruit this season.

From my safe distance he informed me

“my tree bore no fruit this season”;

For years we handled fruit.

And now I must eat alone

letting the vitamins of citrus

into my veins

to be of custom and of lore.

I peel slowly my orange

in my hand the enzymes and oils squirt

and leave cloudy strains on my palms

the color of cream soda.

When they dry

I get sticky and

irritable

trying to scratch off the marks

of impurity but in vain

for I only manage to wedge the smell of citrus deep under my nails

knowing damn well

every time I lift my hand to my face

for the next two days

I will smell it and I will remember;

I am sitting on my bed naked

wishing I were the orange

tonight

I do not eat this fruit;

When does it

all turn to juice?

When can I drink

refreshments?

My skin dries beneath the wet gaze

and dampens when dead eyes look upon it,

searches to be whole

and torn and wholed again

by some father’s child.

Squished to juice between two metal spheres

that cut perfectly into the halved orange

droplets dribble through the small holes

collecting in a cup centimeters below

that feel like eons of space.

He looks at me directly

as he drinks to satiety

his eyes completely

and utterly

dead;