By ELSA LYONS
Does the orange want to be peeled? Tenderly
I push my fingernail through her stubborn rind,
reveal the bulge of her white-veined flesh.
She’s almost throbbing with juices. They’re almost
circulating through her. It’s almost music.
Violin strings curve like a net around her pulp,
asking to be played, plucked. Does she want me
to unstring her? Does she want me to suck
the seeds from her body, show them
to the sun? Yes, I want you to kiss me.
There are seeds in my throat, whole clusters
of them, and I’m afraid they’ll sprout before
they land in soil. I’m picturing an orange
deformed by little oranges swelling inside it,
tumors. I am getting too full of juice.
I squeeze it out into these words; tell me
if they’re pulpy, tell if they’re sweet.
Writer | Elsa Lyons ’27 | elyons27@amherst.edu
Editor | Gabby Avena ’25 | gavena25@amherst.edu