Image included to display stylistic choices.
The mystical fusion of reds and yellows,
gives me the kind of orange that stands out,
against the plain blue sky,
like the winter sun—
the only difference is I can’t look one in the eye,
while the other slips down my tongue like an amphetamine.
Oranges whisper to each other,
I have heard them speak,
they talk about death, seasons and the trees that stand bare—
Oranges cocoon their conversations in their sweetness,
you can forget the days but you can never forget the taste.
Oranges, resting in a basket,
talk about their half-brothers and half-sisters,
they tell stories like they are all born storytellers—
Oranges are fearless,
they whisper about their villages,
carry their roots in the texture of their faces.
Oranges, in my grocery bag,
talk about the human lives they’ve witnessed,
they say, “Hah! All of them are afraid to die.”—
They paint a vivid picture of humans with their own,
reds and yellows,
they say, “Her eyelids were drooping.”
“He had a sad smile on his face.”
“That little girl seems to be happier than her mother”
Oranges, inside my fridge,
talk about the end of season,
they say, “It’s near, we can already feel it”—
They mourn their shared fates,
and then they say,
“Oh, so this is why humans are scared of death”
Oranges, in my hands,
they just turn a little black—
That makes them look a little rotten,
but they are just simply holding their breaths,
and I know that makes them look a little bruised.
I peel all the oranges,
dress them on my plate,
and eat them in the weighing silence,
that is disturbed, occasionally,
by another season’s approaching footsteps.
Anushka G. (she/her) is a 21-year-old writer based in India. She is a graduate of Psychology and wishes to be a Clinical Psychologist one day. In her free time, she likes to bury her nose in a book with a cup of tea by her side. One of her long-term goals is to become a published author.