The semi-mortal sky licks
crimson off the kitchen walls,
all the purples at the center

of a tootsie roll pop kind of night
& other patient liminalities.
The only way to eat a blood orange

is to wait—opening its own abject-fleshed
deliciousness; how human
it looks inside, sticky & desperate.

A glare off the dull end
of a knife, halos onto photos
of two uncanny lovers slouching

into one another, then these
filthy dishes, neglected excavations,
then curtains like ghosts in endless

ascension, then mid-thought about
how people in the Middles ages believe
that this seeping citrus symbolizes

new beginnings & Resurrection
is a new sex position we are trying
tonight. The trick to it is—

we must looks like phantoms
to each other through the steam
of leftover lo mein. I google how

long it takes for the ruptured blood
orange pooling between us
to cure me

of my indigestion.