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Poem by Kate Welsh // @khwelsh // @khwelsh //

In the morning against the gray of the sidewalk and the sky, this tangerine is the only bright thing. I open the orange skin

in one piece to show its white side, blooming around a closed fist tangled in matted thread. I urge an orange finger

to uncrook, pull to crack the knuckle. It pops away from the rest, leaves loose threads dangling in winter. I cup the orange curve

in my palm, keep the juice rolling along the lines and then falling, dripping light on the concrete. I burst the orange flesh against my teeth with my tongue.


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