Toward the Orange

The seams of my soul split apart
like an orange peel,

Patience ebbing,
I gnaw at the leathery skin with my teeth,
Desperate, yearning
to free the fruit from its flesh.

Bitter citrus morsels
paint my tongue
with the ghost of sweetness.

Swollen glands of juice
still hiding
behind thick white fibers.

This journey toward the center
has taken me
a long time.

Fragrant threads of residue
stick to my skin
as my body carves through the wedges
like a knife.

I just need
to see the center
with my own eyes.

Some say there’s a magic woman
who grants wishes
with a tap of her fingernails,
a box that cannot be opened
but contains everything you’ve ever wanted,
a vial of orange juice ambrosia
that, when rubbed in the eyes,
heals you.

These stories
have ripened so deeply
within my psyche
that I know
only this orange
can save me.

I’ve made it
to the amber flesh-wall,
the only thing
keeping me from the center.

I press my face
against its soft body,
hoping to hear something
on the other side.

For a moment,
I could hear a rattle--
no, maybe a hiss,
maybe a hum
of the magic woman?

I push one of my hands
through the membrane,
my body follows
as if being soaked
like water
into a sponge.

I’m at the edge
of something,
but there’s nothing
that I can see.

It’s a void.

Still holding onto the membrane,
I dangle a leg
into the abyss.

Nothing.

The center was supposed
to be this place
of divine conclusion.

Once you made it,
everything would make sense,
everything would reveal itself,

Everything would--