Retrospective
Oranges tumble
onto a counter
bathed in early light.
I rinse each one
under the faucet’s steady stream,
dust eddying down the drain,
this water an illusion of plenty
in the desert of my childhood.
Oranges sliced and pressed
onto the whirling reamer,
juicer singing its song of extraction,
singing and singing as it spins
under the pressure of my hand,
juice spilling
into the reservoir
into the spout
into the cup
that will bear witness to
—although that day,
I did not know—
the abundance
that can come
after things are split open,
emptied, poured out.
