From the Florida Citrus Hall of Fame - Dylan Furbay

The bursting oranges drain on the grove.

Lemon squeezy as they say, it's sun-warm and sticky

in between the grooves of our digits.

The fruits pour onto our hair, spill into our glasses, and

drip the sunburnt citrus under our eyelids.

There, it is a sour nectar.

Fresh squeezed and all

pulpy and pompous,

grown guilt free,

it still solders the eye so slowly.

That dam does vomit,

it spews and spits through our lips

so fast we cannot taste it,

but later, once our lungs have emptied,

we will still smell it on our chests.

The juice waxes our limbs and layers

on the skin like sugared lotion,

molten and making for friction

until we sweat it away

or lower our necks to lick it off,

and when we lick,

best be sure we taste it all,

eating

every inch of that fresh squeezed juice

dared to waste on our greasy skin.

Even as the oranges plummet and pound

on our backs, blacken with bruises and

rot overhead, they're hardly more

than pounds of pulp and juice,

and we can walk the grove ignoring the

flimsy pulse of fallen oranges.