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twenty-fifth, may when i was still ripening a little every day, and i had bright blond hair; when i was young (which, i assume, is similar to feeling a little drunk), the time finally came for me to learn how to cut an orange. i waited until i could see everybody's broad backs and slipped a butter knife out of the top drawer. fruit in one hand, instrument in the other, i jabbed straight through the sugary pulp, right through to the other side, in the blue of the day, into the soft wall of my pink palm. every time a foreign object collides with the scar that was left behind, the strange ache leaves me in a daydream, stuck on that point of my life like it was the top of a windy hill. |