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When I sliced into the aging
orange, it skin already dimpling,
navel sinking deeper, it fell
open, offering still juicy virgin
sections and shiny seeds.
I inhaled its citrus scent as if
to learn the tongue of oranges;
as if it might tell me about light
and seeded immortality. I hoped
to taste the seasons of the grove
in a remembered dawn—swallow
some pulp to witness our shared
destiny. I ate it all, even the stringy
white membranes, savoring a silence
I am still translating.