sometimes I think about palestine.
sometimes I think about oranges.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way my father lights up, golden in the sun with a smile he reserves for special occasions, like when his children succeed or when the orange trees bloom.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way its peel makes a home under my nails, sprays oil until the smell of it lingers in the air, sharp and strong and livid in its joy.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way my sister stands over the grass, juice-sticky down to her elbows, and reaches her hand out to me anyways; I take it, and her skin sticks to mine.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way my mother passes up her slice, then another, then another, building pyramids of orange triangles built to last for her children.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way the knife pushes tension against the peel like a needle on my skin, slips past and cuts and spills juice like blood over my fingertips; if they are stained then I will walk the rest of my days with hands dyed.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way seeds settle between the thin flesh of each wedge, tough and safe and full of life, a victory as it grows into what it has always been destined for, reaching for the skies even as it collapses a universe of life into a single tiny stone.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way they litter the earth under my feet, rotted from the wind and the rain but so full of kindness it spills out over the edges, ready to give every drop of their soul to the earth if it means another flower will bloom in the spring.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way my best friend split an orange in her hands and held it out to me across land we cannot cross, the way each bite settles heavy in my stomach but light in my heart.
sometimes I think about oranges, the way sweetness coats my lips and tongue and teeth for hours, clingy; the way acid drips gentle into the cuts in my skin and stings, as if to tell me, "I'm here, I'm here, I'm still alive."
sometimes I think about you.
