Naranja
By: Maya Baca
summer
media naranja
i have a deep ache lingering in my heart for a land that feels like what my bones are made from; a red dust so fine that it can be sprinkled across the desert skies
of a land that whispers the story
of mi gente amongst the swirling wind, guiding them back to the burning blaze of their lion heart flowers blooming
amongst the pricks of cacti
formed into a crown of thorns
and placed on a prodigal daughter’s
head to bear in earnest for the world to see a blood so rich and deep and ancient
that the earth beneath me feels
like coming back to a home
known long, long ago
jugó
when the citrus hues of
sunlight finally flow in,
it drowns the smoothness of his skin
in glistening rays of aurelian haloes,
encasing the delicacy of his face
like the sun god himself has
finally found rest between my sheets;
i could drink his beauty in forever,
a seasoned juice made of the sweetest fruits unlike any other
i have stumbled upon
on this earth,
warming my skin and flushing my cheeks until everything in the world seems
dull except for him
i worship him beneath the sunlight with tongue and teeth and taste
over and over
until the sweetness spills across the sky and i am home
again, in arms forged from
the strength of pulling the sun
for centurions without end;
I could devour him like this
all day long,
for as long as
he would allow me to
orange liqueur
like a breath of fresh air expands the
constricting ache nestled in my lungs,
it loosens the tension of my clenched jaw
and uptight shoulders and my entire body’s coiled bandwidth; until my head feels like the heavenly
sanctum my grandmother promised would
be gifted to me if only i prayed
hard enough to
let the light in
i realize now,
there was no demand needed
to suffer in order to repent towards
a heaven as divine as this one is,
one where the buzz blossoming under my skin feels like what god must have felt
when the world became flesh beneath
his hands and he gifted it
his most cherished piece of himself
despite knowing the cruel fate it
would meet.
i think, that if i believed in a god,
i would find him sitting amongst my
friends,
giving the entirely of himself again
without hesitancy,
laughing over drinks instead of constructing the cross that his love would die on
citrus
it is not the sweet, chile-coated dulce
that i thought it would taste like
once i rolled it across my anticipating tongue,
sensations of a peculiar flavor
i have never experienced
coating my tastebuds with a subliminal tingling; as if i am allergic to the
words escaping these
lips and tongue y boca
it is like a green, sour limón rind
digging its way
under my tongue with a
tartness that scrunches my face
with distaste at the stuttering
phrases burning the enamel off of my teeth
just like when i bite hard enough into their verde flesh that the acid burns again
will it always feel this way?
no sabo
whether i am more bitter about losing
the acquired taste for knowing and breathing and living en la vida español,
or whether it is realizing that i have learned what i can and will still never comprenderé
enough to truly taste what was
always meant to be mine
a piece of me that feels
raw and rotten and ransacked
by the neglect of feeding a younger child the food of her soul siempre estoy hambriento
and i don’t know how
to swallow that
fall
at the core
rotted pit
doesn’t matter what is festering within the internal seedling core
so long as the supple exterior
remains perfectly unblemished
from the teeth marks scraping against
its armor
good girl
vulnerable and tender and ripe for the picking, for whatever you want her to be
for whatever you are looking to
sink your teeth into
sweet, tangy, juicy,
good girl good girl good girl
bruised and battered and useless
for anything but the decaying remains
of something that was at one time
something so beautiful,
nothing left except the corpse:
the cold, hardened pit that had
its flesh ripped mercilessly from
the tendons,
it’s skin shredded cruelly by sharpened teeth ravaged by Hunger
a shriveled core left to
rebuild its roots into
something else,
anything other than this
good girl
rotted
there is a sickness
nestled in the crown of my thorns piercing itself deeper and deeper into the flesh of my skin,
like a rotting
that oozes it’s way into the crevices and festers amongst the mold growing in the darkness
if i could be anything else,
i would be;
something without the
carcass decaying into my tan earth and the death becoming the sawdust of my bones;
i would be something other
than the look of despair nestled in the soil of my mothers gaze, dirt that she shovels onto the oak of my freshly shined coffin pretending that it is some other body she is burying six feet under
at times i think it is all in my head; in that rot and muck that digs into my skull and poisons the flesh left over from the rapture;
sometimes i think it’s just something that i have always been inherently born with,
a sickness that feels like the earth i was born from,
a final soft return
bittersweet
the women in our life
heal the wounds they didn’t cause
is that what womanhood is? a sense of healing
for any pain inflicted by hands
not our own?
how intimately must you know pain
to handle others
with such care?
winter
squeeze
i once thought peace
would come at the End;
i suppose i never thought
it would be at the End of
a little white pill
swallowed down whole-
(i have never been whole
of anything
before)
how does someone experience so much of life
and still feel dead inside?
can you crack my skull open and scrape out the rot
without pulling the flowers up by the roots?
or is this something buried, so imbedded in me that
to scrub it clean
would be to wash away
all that once held
any shimmering of my soul glistening
in its palm?
i think i’m still looking for the other part of me;
the one that could have been made whole
instead of ripped in half
and stitched crudely
back together
maybe she never existed
maybe she only exists now
halves
i peel the fleshy skin of an orange
and hold it out like a sacrilegious peace offering to share with
my mother,
ignoring the citrus rines that linger under my nailbeds like all of the other people i have held onto for too long
without reason;
she takes a piece tentatively in her mouth, her face souring as she spits out the fruit like it is a personal offense against her expectations
she complains to me that it is
too bitter
too soft
too messy
for her liking;
i try to pretend like she is
not talking about me.
i reach out to take the delicate fruit back, placing the flesh between my teeth before shredding it to bits,
pretending like it does not burn the fresh cuts lining the flesh of my mouth to do so
we sit in silence, the only sound between us the harmonic melody of missed cues
and my endless chewing of a simple little orange fruit
i think that if i could,
i would rest my head on her shoulder,
lean against her like i once did as a little girl, and pretend like we could share something other than the burdening weight of
mothers and daughters
i do not stop holding out oranges to her.
perhaps one day we can share
the sweetness
spring
cutíes
children who are touch starved
never seem to know
what it means to be
fulfilled
& yet,
i somehow find
myself digging my fingertips into
the plump flesh of citrus fruit
and tearing the ripe skin apart,
ignoring the juice dripping
into the burning cuts of my knuckles and picked nail beds,
aching to get to the sugariness
hidden just
beneath the bruised surface;
a gesture that feels
all too similar to ripping my chest open and holding out the other half
of my sentimental heart,
waiting for someone to devour it whole and leave my stomach grumbling
instead,
your finger reaches out
and wipes the bottom of my lip when the citrus juice dribbles onto my chin
after the first bite,
the nectar dripping onto the wrinkled collar of my favorite shirt
as you suck the sap coating your
fingers flesh clean, smiling
it tastes just as sweet as i
could have hoped
seedlings
since before i was born
i knew the women
i knew how it felt for
their heart to rattle in their chests like cicadas mourning the daylight awaiting them
with each bated breath
of uncertainty,
and how the sorrow of
twisted, tangled dichotomies made a rooted home
nestled into the gardened marrow of their overworked bones;
i knew their joy,
how it was a gilded sunlight
soaking into the vibrant blood swirling divinely through
their beating hearts
their unwavering smiles
their melodic laughs,
a symphonic harmony of
hopes and dreams and
every beautiful sentiment of
femininity that could only sound like poetry coming from a women’s lips, the innate feeling of
girlhood that never felt possible until i found it in the crevices of my grandmother’s wrinkled hands
seeds of womanhood
planted throughout the years
of my lineage
that permeated the world with
women of grandeur
and gratitude,
women with scars on the hands
that braided flowers into my hair, a birthright to be adorned
in crowns of tenderness
and jewels of loveliness
to share the wonders of femininity so purely
women who had been adored
and hated
and admired
over and over again
throughout centuries;
this blood, this sisterhood
i had known it even before i ever
knew anything else
golden
he stands with an apron tied around his waist
spoon in his hand and awe in his eyes
while listening to my grandmother
confess that cooking is food for the soul
and a love made so physical you can
taste it’s sweetness beneath your tongue.
he furrows his brow and gets to work,
focused and intent and endlessly beautiful in the way he handles her words so delicately on mumbling lips, imitating her movements so reverently within his small being,
like this precious moment is an heirloom wrapped in gold,
placed around his neck and hanging above the drumming of his devoted heart.
i pray to every god i’ve ever known that he stays this soft:
remains this untouched and vulnerable,
with a nurtured tenderness spilling out so ceaselessly from his chest that it cascades out in
shining, glimmering
gold.
summer
the girl who gave oranges
It started as all simple things do.
An idea, a desire;
a realization, that there was
no one who remained unhappy
when she selflessly offered up
the small orange fruit
nestled in the palms of her hands
towards them.
She found that there were many
responses to her gifted orange tendency: some would shove the entirety of the fruit into their mouth, all at once.
Juice splashing onto their cheeks and
landing on her own face as they chewed the fruit recklessly, ruthlessly.
And when they swallowed, she was always surprised to see that they simply held out
their hands for more please,
awaiting another treat to fall into their hands.
or
they peeled it slowly.
Methodically tearing the skin
from the flesh
as one might intricately carve an
animal’s carcass to roast over a fire.
She never stuck around long enough
to see if they ever got to the core of their prey, a sickly feeling rolling through her stomach at what they would then hunt once they
finished their initial pursuit.
Some would hold it in their pockets.
They would ignore its presence entirely,
let it rot and squish into mushy nothingness until they held the squandered remains
back out to her and admonished,
Look what you did! Do you see? You let it get so disgusting!
As if she was the one keeping it away from sunlight all this time.
Others would not take the orange at all.
She would chase them down, holding out the fruit while trying to reason that there was no price to pay, no debt to be owed
for the fruit she offered so pathetically in her trembling hands. Those were the ones who never took anything. And who never looked back.
Until one day, she looked down into her orange basket and realized that all the fruits of her labor that she once had were gone.
All except one.
So she stumbled on, afraid of the possibility that she would come across someone and either give them her very last orange to curb their appetite or tell them regretfully that she could not give the last one she would ever have. Or else she would go hungry herself. She would disappoint them either way.
She had never intended to do so.
Finally, after what felt like endless walking, she met her fate. A person across from her standing with a basket of their very own.
Hello, she started hesitantly, what’s in your basket? They smiled widely at her, holding up the wicker to show her the treasure nestled inside. She gasped. Cherries.
You have cherries? She gasped, looking up to them with unfiltered glee, what beauty!
Would you like some? They asked, holding out their harvest like it was a feast she was invited to be the guest of honor at, a look so genuine that she wished more than anything that she could indulge. If only for a bite. A nibble, she would settle for. She reached her hand out…
and froze, suddenly distraught with what the repercussions of this gift would entail.
What she would be forced to repay if she agreed. I’m sorry, she whispered regrettably, I cannot take your gift. For, I only have one orange left. There is nothing I could give you in return. She pulled back the checkered cloth of her basket, revealing the lonely fruit that had sat withering within the covered cloak; the one last orange that she would never feel worthy of eating herself.
They looked into the basket, then up at her. And they laughed. Head back, face raised blissfully towards the sun with glee, they laughed at her words before shoving their hands into their own basket and forcing the red fruits from their palms into hers.
Do you really think I would only offer you my fruits if I got yours in return? They teased, smiling over at her as if waiting for her to grin back at them in understanding. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Hadn’t that been how it always was? Wasn’t she supposed to gift her oranges without any expectation that the fruits of labors were to be shared? So, she stayed silent, holding out the cherries wordlessly. They seemed to read the unspoken. Their eyebrows furrowing as she bowed her head in shame, waiting for them to dismiss her without another word or chastise her for letting them believe she had anything worth offering in the first place. What she never expected was their tender hand on their shoulder, a touch so delicate that she wouldn’t have registered it if they hadn’t spoken to her in the same moment.
You don’t have to give anymore, they whispered softly, grabbing onto the hand of her basket gently, Come. We have enough for you to enjoy. I’ll show you.
She followed them. Through the winding gardens of twisted vineyards, through the heavy swaying trees of the apple orchards, through the bushels of bursting berries that lined each of their sides. She let them lead her through all of the lands, until they seemed to find solace in a wide open space nestled within the vessel of all the varying homes and harvest.
And in the middle was a table.
Littered in a cornucopia of delightful offerings: crisp apples of reds and greens, grapes so large she thought she could fit them whole in her mouth. There were the cherries she had seen in their basket and every crop she could ever imagine. And surrounding the table, with its bountiful feast, she saw the others. The ones feeding grapes into each other’s mouths as they laid back with their eyes closed, tossing cherries into wide mouths awaiting the treat like baby birds. She saw the way that they cut the kernels of the corn off of the cob for one another, digging the seeds from pumpkins as they carved elaborate faces into the swelling skin. She saw how they passed the food between each other as if there was no ending and no beginning to what they each had brought forward to the feast.
There was no payment, no trading.
There was only sharing.
See? They finally said next to her, We don’t need you to give anything. We just need you to enjoy.
She followed them closer, to how the others surrounded her with smiling faces and opened arms, shoving the various fruits from the alter into her hands and pulling her towards the table seats nestled amongst each other. She saw them squeeze the grapes into wine, the peaches into sangria, the limes into margaritas, passing the drinks down their rows until everyone had a glass filled to the brim with juice and jubilation.
She couldn’t believe it. How they had welcomed her without asking anything in return. How they didn’t need her to give them anything to be happy and fulfilled, yet they included her in their bliss as if she was a part of their harvest as much as they were. She looked down at the orange still sitting in her basket, still sitting lonely despite the gathered celebration surrounding them with infectious energy. She gently picked up the fruit in her hand, turning it over as she contemplated what to do now that she could decide its fate without the fear of disappointment.
She wanted to throw it away. Destroy the part of her that had given away so much of herself without care or caution. She hated it, this stupid fruit that became everything she never knew she despised.
Until they sat down. Tossing their cherries onto the table, laughing with the others about how the seeds were too finicky to squeeze into wine and too textured to ferment into ale. She watched them all laugh, sip from their glasses, press their chins onto each other’s shoulders without flinching away or focusing on the fruit in her hands.
So she began peeling. Each orange surface of the last fruit of her harvest, until she split it into a perfect half. She tapped their shoulder, awaiting for them to turn and see the offering she held out to them.
It’s not much, she murmured, suddenly embarrassed at the wilted look of it, it’s been bruised and sitting in my basket for much too long. It’s probably not that good anymore anyways. She shrugged.
You don’t have to give me this if you don’t want to, they assured her once more, there is no price to be paid back for sharing the harvest with the ones who mean the most to you. It only solidified her decision more.
They hadn’t asked anything of her or her oranges. They had brought her to a feast that was filled with the labor of love that all of the others had brought together to enjoy without expectations. She realized now what it was that they had done. They had gifted her this. Truly, in the way it was meant to be. She pushed their hand back, nodding once.
I want to share this with you, she admitted, because you never asked me to.
They smiled at each other, placing the halves in their mouths at the same time.
She had never tasted anything so filling.
Poem by Maya Baca
Luciana Sullivan
Luciana comes from the swamp of Gainesville, Florida, and was raised in an uncanny suburb south of Disney World. She’s been a radio intern, a barista, a PBS fundraiser, a disappointment, an ice cream scooper and a volunteer poetry editor. She reads, writes, and edits things in English and listens to the Mountain Goats more frequently than is advisable.
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