Song of sapphic orange juice by Aadrit Banerjee
on soft carpels,
a tapestry of fibres
weaved on them,
memories of a
hundred winter tales
sewing, and shelling
of tangy flavored-
so red inside,
like smiles of
Almost unholy to touch by Medha Arora
something about oranges lately
nestled tight in crates
sun-bright from a distance
almost unholy to touch
to peel, to pluck wedges,
the act of
stripping white threads,
coaxing me with its
subtle supple sweet scent
gracefully incensed by the
colour it gave to fire
even with its winter light
my hands give in
singed with sourness
scraped rind under my fingernails
making a bad habit out of an aftertaste
soothing a thirst
seeded in my mind
dripping down my elbows
my tongue a citrus mesh
of not holding back sin
lately something about oranges
makes me savor the pulp
I used to strain from its juice
sun-bright even from up close.
A hurricane rushed to a goldfish's bowl by Shailja Bahety
Saffron soaked in rosewater;
Your mother pierces the skin of an
orange to steal its star-like seeds.
Turmeric blended in hot curry;
She is pious and godly and makes every
star-holed orange drop on your plate.
Sugar sprinkled on papaya slices;
She is an accountant of your fate-
misery debit, goodness credit.
Halloween pumpkin, a foreign asset;
You don't often sell her a glance
because your mother is a local chemist
shop, you go to, only in need.
Carrots crushed between rabbit's teeth;
Silence sits like a third person at the
dining table and every time she tries
to talk, your hand glued to the remote
changes the channel.
Old marigolds, a fiery scent;
Something is wrong with her health.
A hurricane rushed to a goldfish's bowl;
Your home is running out of oranges,
your books of accounts are messed up
and your chemist shop is shutting
Traffic light stuck between let go or stop;
Her heart needs a pause, so she
desires a pilgrimage and instead
becomes a prayer that never returns.
Cheetos abandoned you like childhood;
Her memory covers your soul like moss
because orange tulips deny growing
around sad rocks.
Maaza bottled up your regrets;
You want to break the peach sky and
bring her back because nothing feels
harder on the heart than the mere
thought of living in a world with
Jupiter peels a citrus fruit for the sun;
Feeding a dead soul an orange with a
a star-like hole is as impossible as
drawing an orange around her star in
Your orange popsicle collapsed on the road;
Ambulances are tired, nothing can
I've always been sour by Anjana Venugopal
I discreetly remember
One of my old lovers
Wearing a perfume that made me want to love,
So I spent a multitude of my mornings
Basking in what I remember to be
The smell of freshly squeezed oranges
Head to the chest, heart to the brain
Love to indifference
Fitting existence into a Rubik's cube.
Just so, it could be
Solvable, probable, definite
Flu seasons always began with the sting of calpol
Of bitter tongues singed with too-hot porridge
Mother would be peeling oranges
Singing a non-vocal lullaby ( I hoped)
For a child as inspired as I,
Oranges were a mystery box.
Unwrap to find - sweet, sour, rotten
The fruit was a consolation that
The peeling is over.
More often than not, I've been loved
Like an orange being peeled.
With haste, catching a quick bite between bus rides.
With poise, taking out the piths with tender fingers,
Feeding a lover's lips, a dream.
With hurt, comforting feverish foreheads
With citrusy sweet sections.
No wonder I've always been sour.
The orange is naked.
There are no answers that make sense.
This is an incomplete poem.