orange not of citrus

nor born of adjusted paint

pregnant from the hand of human

 eye,

when memory connects with the rousing fireball beyond

she frames windows and doors

 and politely sits

besides her expectant apertures

casting no voice

no mention of you inside

as you lay benumbed beside another

 empty

   as you cry with bitter taste

   she remains unmoved

not because she does not love you

she cannot

she does not speak

her textured skin revealing frozen goose bumps

forgotten with the passage of time

like you

 who will soon forget

   being fucked

  in sadness and in

  constipation

these feelings you have

will be chewed and renewed

in your very next breath

at the edge of fresh nails

and of melting tears

filling the
belly of green
and brown 
mounds, of 
salted weeds, 
slippery hides
and pointed
forms of teeth

and shell