A bag of oranges



there were orange peels scattered all over our king sized-bed,
    the bed bringing with it a distance and solitude sometimes when needed,
            and sometimes it was needed, badly,
                  and we sat up eating oranges slice by slice,
                        flinging tiny bits of peel carelessly
as the sheets became more and more stained with juice;
      it was a moment when conversation was under suspension,
                  each bit of peel was a lie as we ate the slices in silence;
the slices were sweet but the fruit of a few
had gone dry and bitter but we ate them
                  anyway and the silence remained; I knew
      one of us should speak first and I did not want
it to be me, and I told myself, oh
                        God, chew slowly and make each
bit of pith last as long as possible,
                  but the choice is to stop or
just keep going and eating until
                              the bag of oranges was empty;
we had bought the bag from a
                        road side stand on a sunny day marked by silence,
making the sky turn gray and the sun lonely;
      the bag was finally emptied and tiny bits
of peel were everywhere;
            I leaned over and picked up the bag
                        and crushed it and tossed it over to the trash basket,
but I missed; then someone with a voice like a finger on humming
            wet crystal said, “go pick it up.”