i dreamt last night
you were eating an orange
from the green-striped bowl
in my living room.

you dug your fingernails
—chipped with clear polish,
long nails i know you’ll
cut soon—into (my) skin

and carved it open,
one long ribbon and a smattering
of raindrop sized bits.
when you finally tugged at the slices
juice oozed all over
your wanting fingers

and you grimaced as your hangnails
brushed citrus, the slightest bit.
i wouldn’t have noticed
if it weren’t

you
placed each piece in your mouth
and reached for napkins before you finished.

i don’t think this means anything

only that i know how you eat your oranges.
that i’ve seen you swallow them, ten,
maybe twenty times,
and have cataloged the motion;

you and your sticky sweet hands,
person enough to make a mess of things—
gentle, baring.