Blood Oranges

I don’t know how to play guitar
In eighth grade I tried, bought a big blue
acoustic guitar the size of my torso, the neck

longer than my arm, too wide for my tiny
hands to plant a chord, too big for me.

I must have quit shortly before college,
when I quit everything that was me
there were cornstalks replaced with palm trees

veins couldn’t help but sizzle in the sun.
I realized all the tourist propaganda was a shiny pot

boiling with fizzy lies, but we can’t touch them,
they will give us blisters. Look at my tiny hands
browned flesh, oblong bubble pocks, they aren’t from

burning my hands on the broiler, although I can’t get
the naan out of the oven any other way, but

there needs to be time to get the table set just right.
You know the hummingbirds stop by for citrus
this time of evening, this time of year, when the sun

is casting lavender fields across the clouds.
“We should get married in a lavender field” Ryan winks,

with tiny birds strung all about. I’m thinking of humming
birds, how they eat our citronella world, how they also love
every smeared and sparkling shade of red.


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