A history of brief love and oranges Blossom-tipsy from walking in the orangery, and with the pale sun feigning summer through the glass, we pare off our winter skins and lie beneath the citrus trees. Afterwards we feast on oranges, your fingers slipping segments between my lips until I bite. And as we harvest orange peel from the folds of our discarded clothes, you whisper histories of the sweet and bitter variety, sighing for your other, more exotic, lovers: Citrus sinensis, Citrus aurantium. Later, when for the last time you unclothe me, you find me as unashamed as fruit and juice-ripe. Together we un-appled Eden, and now I ache for the weight of an orange. Jo Senior
< Snapshots Contents Her Pegasus >