once, the ground fell from under my stomach
dropping my innards, me, into lonely
acid misery—roiling drumbeats,
constant storm—until I was tempted
by the bright rind of a clementine,
small and string-sweet.
tremoring teeth tips, I bite, I bit
—juice dripped chin—and feel better.
feel healed. hang the peels outside to dry
like I was a leper and they were god’s fingertips,
like tangerine prayers and promises
that I will not forget what I’ve learned.
all things orange must be capable of sunshine.
later, the stomach acid turned simply citric,
guts wretched and orange queased again.
squirrels stole my rinds, every sunbeam
gone, and I was deeper than ever
in the green pool.
Tillie Lefforge is a writer who thinks a lot about chronic illness, treetops, and fuzzy things that bite. They are a creative writing student at Hendrix College. Her work can be found in Aonian literary magazine. She’s from Arkansas, she studies in Arkansas, and she loves Arkansas despite it all.
