by Arlene Ang
This orange on the counter
is ordinary navel. The rind holds its own
tiger scent, flirty camisole of oils.
The twin fruit swells like mainsail
in the wind, a gibbous eyelet
awaiting sight. Where the umbilical
stem broke, it's jagged,
unwaxed. I have to use my nails
to strip away the skin.
His lips wrap themselves deeply
around the pithy fruit.
Juice trickles. Down his chin.
Down my thighs. Every drop
glistens like his cufflink on the floor.
The prevailing sound is water. It peels
away my clothes. On the floor, her stockings sleep
together. I find her in the bath: a peach.
Slightly furred. Rotund. Moderately cheap.
Today, she says, she's reading Keats
and Keats became a fishing accident. She takes
a book from beneath the suds. Not bad,
she adds, for someone dead. I see a dab
of jelly on her lips. Like her hand, they're moist,
partly open and hungry. She omits
telling me the parts she liked best. I see a page
between her legs. The yellow tiles gape
rose tattoos. I pull it out --Ode on a Grecian Urn--
like a used condom. We watch the juices run.