I am trying to write a poem about oranges

About gnashing teeth and how it feels for someone to love you

even when you look primally stupid

humans’ jaws are characterized by

a u-shaped parabolic curve

dental formula 2:1:2:3

this, in many respects sets us apart from the rest of

the hominidae

I am trying to write a poem about desire

rind, juices, sticky flesh

runs down my chin

obnoxious tongue darts out to lick it off

dental arcade refers to the:

curved rows of teeth

on the upper and

lower jaw

I am trying to write about the feeling of being hunched over the kitchen sink

tearing apart the rawhide skin

fingernails sunk in

feeling like you’re taking part in some hideously lustful sin

unlike some apes,

our teeth do not have spaces

to sharpen our canines

despite this, at 162 psi

humans have got one hell of a bite

I am trying to write about the abstract feeling of hunger

about gnawing and wanting and longing

about citrus and seeds and pulp and spit and incisors

and the way it feels to be desired—

no, I am trying to write about

fucking

oranges

sometimes I wonder what my grandfather saw on that battleship,

port cities doused in napalm

Saigon set on fire

he was just an electrical engineer,

my mother says

he never saw combat

what did you see out there?

when I close my eyes hard enough,

I can picture myself standing beside him

watching people die

along the shoreline

you’ve got two options, son: join the army or the navy

so he shipped out

(he reads Catch-22 in bootcamp but I don’t know it til he wanders into my

house

while I’m reading it on the couch)

there’s things he’ll never say

(is he scared in the clear light of day?)

i’m old enough to know he’s no hero

i’m also old enough to know not to bring up Vietnam or the words bomb or sarong

(i learn this when I am ten and sitting on the backporch waiting for him to stop screaming the house

down

over a

crossword)

what did you see out there?

I see old photos of him sometimes,

hidden in the wallpapered corners of my mother’s dresser

holding my grandmother (and all her rage is in my mother now)

there ain’t no light in his eyes

and i wonder where it died

seconds tick by slowly

each micro click of metered level shifting to accommodate the intake of a breath

of the dust, melancholy in the moment

lungs inflating with the staleness of silence

filling up with dread, anxiety, a dash of pain, a pinch of panic,

and all the things that take over

the air at late-night thoughts

and time moving so slow

that I think it must be frozen

but no,

because there it is. the number switch, slow as ever,

2:55 am.

now we do it all again.

(repeat until sleep, morning, or death.)

I am accustomed to my own nonsense.

Desensitized to the trauma of the clinics, the doctors, the tests and medications, emergency departments, ambulances, IV's and treatments - sure, all of that. But mostly, to my jokes. I cope with humor. This isn't news to anyone. But what is new to me is how you respond. It puzzles me.

I don't know what to do with your words. I shy away. I flinch from them. You don't laugh when I joke about the things that are not funny, you ignore the joke and tell me how much you admire me. You're proud of me. You can't imagine going through this stuff is easy, and it seems like I always have a great attitude about it. Who told you you could see through me like that? Who said you were allowed?

Fuck off with that. Fuck off. I want to be mad. Let me be mad, please. I have to. Let me ignore it. Let me make 'grr' faces when you compliment my survival skills. (I shouldn't have to have them). Let me reject your compliments in favor of the jokes. Because I cannot accept them when doing so will only make me break. I am not allowed to do that. It's the one think I won't allow myself to do.

I can't afford to break, stranger. Or... whatever you are. Not a stranger. Not just a friend, but not quite more yet, either. In-between, for now. I cannot afford to break for you. So if you want to call me out, you can feel so free. But please, please understand that I can't answer. I'm not ready. I'm too scared and I have far too much to lose.

I am menstrual

unable to fruit.

Wanting beef jerky instead of this complicated plate.

As I hold my hips in my hands, roll my brain back into my eyes

I’m still left hanging like dysfunction on my tongue.

And my heart with its dimensional view of my innards

aches to know a social situation that isn’t frightening.

I write about a lion…

a lot

because

I'm caught between its eyes… often.

Even when I take the long way around a short conversation dancing my poor hurricane til’ dusk lamps bursting in my wake.

He couldn’t ignore the clumsy way I pried open his jaw

Felt the slick sharp of the teeth marked with my name.

The way that I crawled into his mouth and made a bed of his cheek

Lit a candle and wrote on his tongue.

It's dangerous over here, on this side of childhood.

The walls need bleaching after being drenched in grace

and in forms

gestures

silhouettes of what's to be.

Not enough band aids or therapy.

I'm just fragile right now, I think.

Be gentle...

Like the process of making jello.

Like when an autumn leaf crunches into oblivion black back to its maker's arms where I'm half lit unimpressed in cities under street lamps exploding into whispers of me...

This is my erotica

The things I’ve gone through are too much

To believe it was all

Natural.

How, in a world of knowledge, do I not know

Whether what I’m feeling is true or

Artificial.

How are people supposed to see me

If I’m not as resilient as

Stone.

I keep thinking about how fragile

My heart and mind are on the inside of their

Shells.

People look up to me in admiration

But I fear the day they find out I’m not

Perfect.

The day their world shatters into thin pieces

And they see their idol as

Flawed.

Why has my shallow perspective

Forbade me from seeing

Color.

My life has been swallowed and consumed and corrupted, used for entertainment

Of people who feed off others who live in

Monochrome.