my poem about oranges is this time:
i was trained, like all americans,
to eat oranges the right way;
two hands and a stack of napkins.
but mine come with predetermined
thumb nail prints in the peel.
i break the case of each slice
squeeze the pulp with teeth
trained to break the flesh on men's backs.
thinner skin and half moon slices;
frank, give me your finger and suck.