Orange Girl

by Sarah Bean

She called me orange girl--
slipped me clementines when her boyfriend wasn’t looking,
secretive citrus my new communion,
tasting God in my throat.
Passed notes in the form of fledgling fruit, 
peeled myself naked for the brush of her fingerprints against mine
under the table.
I wrote a poem about soulmates on the back of a seed,
kept it under my tongue for weeks,
sprouted new life between my canines
watered with her offerings.
She called me orange girl--
let me hold her pinkie in the back of the theatre
but nothing more.
My personal grocery store,
she sustained me in school lunch rooms,
blinded taste buds.
Kept the first peel in my pocket,
let it fossilize with fascination,
my jeans a historical dig.
She called me orange girl--
cut me down when my branches got too big,
bottled me up,
paired me in the morning with his toothpaste kisses,
I call myself lemon girl now.

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Sarah Bean (she/her) is a library technician and poet from Alberta, Canada. Her work has appeared in Goats Milk Magazine and in zines photocopied at her local library. She thanks you for being gentle.