One plump orange, enclosed in thick amphibian skin,
Requires three days’ dark patience
To release its flavorful peak.
Peppery spots fleck another,
Like it rolled across an island’s black sand beach,
Or was blasted by a sneeze from a small sniffling dragon—
The same clawed beast, no doubt, that bruised yesterday’s banana
And left it split to the flesh, fashionably naked
On the red polyester rug before the kitchen sink.
Christina E. Petrides
Christina E. Petrides is an expatriate American living and working on a small volcanic island in the Pacific Ocean. There, the palm trees and the magpies are imported, but the rice wine is indigenous and delicious. She breathes too much of the notorious “fine dust” (an industrial, not intoxicating, concoction) and spend too little time at the gym.
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 