I sit, flushed from a night crying, hours sobbing for
what I will
never be; prickling with needles of painful warmth and
feeling, like
coming indoors from a day in the snow.
Peeling an orange, I break the skin off in small, wet
pieces, putting
each into my bag.
Next to me, a woman reads a Japanese guidebook, wrapped
up against winter.
Sad still, the weight of the son I will never have
sits on my hip,
arms around me, dozing, face against my chest. His blond
hair lightly
brushes my chin. The lovers I will never meet sadly
stretch out their
arms.
Squeezing each pale orange segment
in my mouth, I spit yellowy grey
pips into my hand. Fingers outstretched, they are a
stone circle on
my palm; unborn, each seed the remainder of life never
realised, a
tree grown backward and compressed.
Absorbed, skin sticky, I hide
and reveal them.
I want to feel everything, even
lack.
With a smile of concern, the
woman beside me nudges my arm, offering a
soft tissue.
Taking it, I wrap the pips like
a tiny treasure, putting them safely
in my pocket, as if for later.
