do you remember when your mother peeled you open? 

we unpeel our clementines 
with trembling thumbs.
found in the bay, 
the clementines had sung to us
with voices crossed between
a flute & a trumpet.
still more clementines 
grinned up at us between the waves.
the world rests on its stilts
& i tell another person
to be careful when leaning over
to pluck fruit from the water.
we see poseidon's silhoutte
behind the waves. 
he is a looming skull 
in the deep. 
we've waited so long
to hear the singing.
we toss the skin in the bay,
forgetting each other.
fresh smell of citrus
under our fingernails.
inside: soft tiny humans
their fists clenched 
like the flesh of fruit.
eyes closed. little lockets.
we try to remember 
our own births. the blur 
of sun in our eyes & the fear
wrapping our skin.
we cup the infants in our palms
until they cry or turn 
back into a bundle of citrus lobes.
most of my decisions 
are made out of fear. 
i imagine caring for a child
in this world 
in sightlines of gods
in my bare feet
with the unpredictable tide.
how long should a human wait?
maybe this is not the question.
the baby is gone. 
the flesh turns sweet & edible.
beside me there is crying.
all the others with their bravery
& their soft hands &
their infant. 
they skitter away towards homes 
that warble with wanting.
i eat the fruit, as one must.
one segment at the time.
each piece, a purse of thigh.
what is the difference between
wanting to hold a baby
& wanting to keep a baby?
in the water the clementines bob 
back towards the horizon where they came from.
i am a tired man
with long trapped in my wrists 
& my neck. i want to crawl back
into the skin of a lemon
or an orange & float in the sea 
as a child again.