Orange Juice

By Samyukta Raghavan

when i opened my eyes yesterday

i thought about how i couldn't

let the oranges rot in the fridge again.

so i took them all out and cut them in halves;

their tired little skin so forgiving

under the merciful laceration of the kitchen knife.

i apologised with all the conviction of a surgeon

before i bled them into this tall yellow

glass we keep inside the old shelf.

(i wiped the precipitation off with my left sleeve)

even though it was bitter when it went down my throat,

it was cold and nice and felt a little like medicine.

and for a moment, I felt it work.

i don't talk about it too much,

but last year i was convinced

there was a tree growing out of my stomach,

so i yanked the roots out of the soil

until my nails were bloody.

i wish i hadn't felled the tree so quickly.

(there is nothing left for me to water)

the rules are unclear on

how to handle change when it

beats at your window like a dust storm

and begs to come sit by you on

the floor of your living room,

but most sources say to just let it in.

so i drink the orange juice

and sit on the floor alone;

let change come by

(whenever it pleases)

By Samyukta Raghavan