Orange eater — a poem

Waxed skin,
Dew-drop pistol.
Spits bitter pith
Onto enamel tools
Used to bruise
Pockmarked leather.

Tear it open,
A full-mouthed
Orange eater.
Quenching thirst
On solids,
Seed-sieving tongue.

The smell lingers
On your fingers.
An oil, permeated,
With nectar-vinegars.
A film of white
Coating each bite.

I’ll watch juice run
Past your right wrist,
Between knuckles
Down your chin.
Take your fill
I insist.