Winter is Orange Season

My mother lived in Florida 
with an orange tree in her backyard 
the lemon tree long dead before she moved in 
The house, a bungalow really, looked friendly 
with its sloppy posture and cracked sidewalk grin. 
Weather and storms had given the house hell 
—I remember installing storm shutters for my mom just last year— 
but the house had absorbed the blows with ease, 
rocked with the wind only to pop back up 
with a fresh coat of paint when it was all over. 

My mother would pick the oranges, too many for her to ever eat 
too many to let rot without feeling guilty 
and she would make marmalade. 
Tart sweet lumpy marmalade with or without habanero chilis 
to give it that special kick. 
She gave the jars to the neighbors and her friends: 
people who would be pulling in later, lining the road, 
to help me clean out. 
There was too much stuff 
too much memorabilia trash cooking supplies stuff 
for me to properly know what to do with. 
I had already taken what I wanted 
her friends would take some 
some of the larger pieces would be left behind 
we'd throw out the junk 
and I'd give the rest to the Goodwill 

Miraculously I'd already sold the house 
a relief so great I cried in my boyfriend's arms all over again 

The canning supplies the jars and the recipes for 
¡Macy de Soto's Famous Homemade Marmalade!
(¡with or without a Habanero Kick!)

I'd be leaving behind 
to comfort the orange tree.


Dying from Bored to Tears

your eyes bleed milk
the sclera an oozing tumor
radioactive poison this earth is finally killing you
Have you seen too much? 
Or is it just from watching the microwave 
listening to the countdown hum 
watching your food spin spin on a plate while you're blasted with rays? 
Which is it? 
the world too much 
or not enough


Atlas' Burden

When had the world got

ten so heavy that we tip

toed to be lighter?