The most surprising orange
I’ve ever eaten
was from a street vendor
in London
in 1997.
Had I ever had citrus grown in the Mediterranean?
My grandfather
would send us home
from our visits to Florida
with mounding bags of citrus
from the trees in his yard.
Oranges,
Tangerines,
Grapefruit,
I would never eat.
My Yiayia and Pappou
had a kumquat tree
in their side yard.
When I grew tall enough to reach its branches,
I would
pluck
each
tiny,
ripe
gem
from the tree
and bring them home to wonder at them,
convinced that they were too small to be real.
In London,
I convinced myself
I was
larger than life;
I was
a me I couldn’t be at home.
Whoever that was.
Flirting with the waitress.
Kissing a woman at a club while her girlfriend went off to get another drink.
Giving my room number
to the schoolteacher
from Southampton
who kept catching my eye
at the British Museum
as he escorted
his young students
on a field trip
(seeking me out while a docent spoke to them;
kissing me on the cheek before rushing back).
Holding hands with a coworker
as she ran her fingers
up the thigh
of the boyfriend
who wasn’t
her husband.
Lying back
on a piercer’s table
for an industrial
I would never get the bar for.
Peeling that street market orange
as I walked down the street,
juice dripping down my fingers and onto my peacoat
was a revelation.
Popping each section onto my tongue
was a revelation.
A communion.
A communion
with my
half-in,
half-out
-of-the-closet self.
Hair hacked short and dyed bright red.
Playing at being brave enough to be me.
Still terrified at not being any one thing.
Terrified of being all of them.
kfw 2022
[I wanted to stay in London. Tried convincing myself that I could just skip the flight home and find a job. Who knows where I thought I’d stay? How many illegal immigrants around the world are ignorant American “kids” who don’t know that you need a work visa–or don’t care.
Where are their cages?]
Undusted Corners 