tangerines

Ate almost nothing but tangerines that summer—
boxes full—
from the farmers market
so cheap and juicy
but without that waxy film.

You were there, I think
but we both know
you can’t trust a word that’s
scented with tangerine breath.

Deceptively sweet and tangy –

sticky fingers
sticky lies.

It wasn’t like that happy summer I ate
all those cherries—
pits pose a new set
of problems.
I hid them under your bed
in a forgotten tube sock.
I’m not sure why
I guess I thought they’d
remind you of me
years later
when you found them
and maybe you’d smile.

But you found them that tangerine summer
and you didn’t smile.
You hurled them at me

stinging handfuls of pits
stinging mouthfuls of lies

my feet didn’t move
my hand squeezed tight
on a tangerine
as juice trickled down my tan leg.

©2009 Jes M Harmon