Windowsill

By:Chloe Harbin

Blood orange trees waver in euphony rhythm, But the nectar on my tastebuds is of black and white.

Reveling in what is seemingly obsolete,

She plucks one of the sweet fruits from a morose seedling And runs up to her father with pompous vernacular over her triumph.

The following days the same child appeared in this garden, Each day she plucks another fruit and lays it upon her windowsill. The rotting peels turn brown as she grows older. The collection expands into a stale cardboard box she keeps secretly underneath her bed, In a room now full of blood pressure monitors and a glucometer, And wallows away listening to the never-ending ringing, As she becomes a witness to a distant memory of herself. A damp smell of decaying citrus circulates from underneath my bed As I stare outside, leaning upon my windowsill, Only hoping that the roots of those trees are still lingering somewhere.