Clementines

By Saidy Gabriela Burch (@stargazingrainstorms)

hum like a lamp,

sing in tart whistle,

little mound on peeling countertop.

light through their depth, they are yolk

clothed in chickenwire net—here,

gouache suns, there, red eyes

of a dragon. unbound they’d

roll and babble like water,

throw treble clamors onto white tile.

they are easy-peel!,

shouts blue package label running

words around the waist; pack

animals (under protest),

know only each other’s skin—

sleeping always with freckled flesh

pressed against the other,

waxy taut barriers to nectar. at

the bottom-right of the pouch

one bears the weight

of the mound overhead—

has dented, bruised,

ruptured—which

will take visual form

only as a modest yellow droplet

on its rind, which

is shrill-dinner bell to spore;

the citrus tune will pivot:

amorphous,

slurring and flat.

the bloom will stroke

the neighboring animal:

will spit-kiss the peel of another

until it yields, arms open to the

magnificent frills of rot,

to a lush velvet decay—

luxurious, cushioned,

a quiet death of exhale.

But the man in the kitchen will not notice this.

He will tear the plastic net with fingers like dog’s teeth,

take a ball from the edge of the bunch,

press florid thumbs and part its flesh and

suck its sour fiber.

Saidy Burch is a visual artist, published writer, and musician. She has earned a B.S. in Mathematics and a B.A. in English from the University of Miami, and currently works as a neuroscience laboratory manager and assistant researcher as she prepares to pursue a graduate degree.