Our love is a squeezed tangerine rotting
in the 2 by 4 boxed compost of my backyard.
I am sorry if this upsets you, although
I imagine the use of the L-word is most
upsetting and unshared. Love takes
many forms; ours is musky
from weeds and spent spinach.
My friends’ skepticism waxes when the
garage motion sensor light catches
the earthworms that writhe in the soil
of other fruit I once claimed to breathe.
The past is the past
when my fingers no longer stick citrus
and the pulp that remains
from our kisses falls from my cheek.
In a couple of weeks, my roommates and I will
reseed the backyard in the soil I have fed for sixth months,
convincing them it was for something