Sip
Orange juice dribbles out of my mouth and stains the tablecloth. It drips through, melts a hole, forms a puddle at my feet, sprouts orange out of pulp and before I know- I am trapped in an orange orchard. It is wet, humid- the air is perfumed with citrus. My lips feel plump and sour and my tongue fizzes in the sun. I am trapped in a grotesque advert for orange juice, I’m sure.
Where was I before this? Sitting in a field with the people I love, folded into a picnic blanket, sprawled across a bench, eating food with my fingers, smiling with my eyes…I lean forward and kiss the ground. Cheese sits on boards. Cards spill out of careless hands. So much laughter over poker I could beam. Grass chains link us together, but dandelion stems blow us apart. I find solace in someone’s lap and hum. Two tangerine slices cool my eyes. They sting as they bleed into my eyelids. I couldn’t care less. The thrum of legs drumming under me keeps me going. The rough edges of denim caress my cheek.
The sky bleeds red. I wake up surrounded by orange peels. The juice is dried and matted- sticky against my thighs. The clementines that adorned my hair are now dried blood oranges strung around my neck. I sit down in the grass. It rains pulp. I let it.
Cover Photo by Christian Luiz. Edited by Madison Case.