I extract pulp from within

an orange as it decays inside

of my fingers, nostrils burning

with frostbitten citrus as the

dry skin crumbles onto pounds

of rocks, I try to pull the remaining

oranges from the branches, only to

see red ants submerging into them,

the same way your body was left to rot

in the frozen ground, clinging decay

as these oranges were discarded in the

orchard withering in the early morning sun

I imagine the fruit cadavers drinking

the salty tears encompassed between

my snow gloved fingers—yearning