You turn on the radio.

Baby, hold me tighter, it sings to you,

baby, never let me go.

A body full of fists.

The secret, you think, is to squeeze

nail into palm and always hold on.

The world must not peel your fingers away piece by piece

like oranges as citrus fills your room.

The music murmurs to you in the lamplight

as it peels you apart, whispers,

time isn’t a god, baby.

You undress. You take off your shoes.

Pinecone in heat,

you open.

You grow a whole orchard of oranges, of citrus,

of never letting go.

There the leaves open and close

Like lips on fire.

You know what they’re hungry for.

Baby, baby, baby.

This is time.

This is my voice on the radio.

Open your fingers baby.

I wanna smell the citrus.