1:

Young women carrying baskets of oranges used to stand near the stage in London theatres and sell oranges at sixpence apiece and themselves for little more

 

between dresses we came.

between naked and nothing

we slipped into the delirious

coils of perfected ears,

 

pear dust on our skin

sarsparilla sounding our

fizzied song in sailor mouths.

 

we were translated by churchwomen

who placed umlauts over our words.

 

when we recovered, we were sold

in beautiful clothes, sent sailing into the gulf

where the moon pitched

its lemon-lateness over the celluloid

 

slickness of sea. we were movie stars

who never entered the frame.

we were green and gone

 

lisping "o" words in the air:

ode, odalisque, obituary.

 

 

2:

The rynde of the orrendge is hot, and the meate within it is cold

 

there are only two ways

to peel an orange

in fragments or in one

coiling brightness.

let us rewind and revel

in the orangeade of sun-

decked eyes. turn me spinning

in a carousel-sweet dress

ear marked by radio teeth

red leaf breath.

your arm is on fire

as we ride in a dark

car to the carnival.

the constant clink

of seatbelt to belt buckle.

the sky's cotton candy

melting in a girl's cold mouth.