Like all of your ex-girlfriends swirled into one
The Hippie becoming the Shaking Limbed
The Almost But It Never Happened becoming the Fantasy
Like your mother
offering you a tangerine

and you obliging
greedily
speaking to her only
in the softness of Spanish
video-taping her
so you have some part of her,
always

Like all of the songs
you have not written

Like one thousand poems
burrowed inside of you
Little beasts you pluck out
at midnight
one by one

Like a wailing
that wakes all of the neighbors
Your folk singer self and
wild-eyed weird-haired shadow
holding hands and shouting together
with head back.

Like wine spilled on the bed
and your never-ending need
to be interesting
carpeted around you.

Like a bar where everyone is talking
and no one is listening
(but you)

Like a sweet tangerine
swallowed seeds and all

To touch you
finally
would be like the stem of a tangerine tree
growing in my stomach
Kicking me with a constant tickling
so I never stop feeling
hungry
(for you)

————-
Lora Mathis is a poet and artist living in San Diego. She likes peaches and unapologetic women. Her work can be viewed at loramathis.com.