It ends with oranges, as
I work my way up,
inside, rise to
this closed-eye occasion.
This citrus coronation.
The cotton softly covering
the places you pry and I leak.
The wings are all set, ripe
and beating so fast, I fall
to the foot of the feet of
my tree. It starts
with oranges.



I’m moving too fast
down the sweet-grass-
sunset road. I sink,
the greed tide rises.
For flashes I wade with
long-arms, lapping
tongues breaking
the creek and calling
for dinner. The colors
change and the
edges blur, but I know
I’m still riding beside it—I
wonder: in what kill or
hollow, what briar patch or pit
where a house once was will
I settle into on steaming
May nights when my body
has finished feeding
the ground?

Adriana Stimola is a non-fiction literary agent, content consultant, mother and ever-aspiring poet.

Image banner: Jeremy Atkinson via Flickr Creative Commons