Bloodfruit by Abby Zhang
Bloodfruit
Abby Zhang
Say it, like you used to peel blood oranges with your teeth, Ma.
The flesh splits soft and shivering under the pressure,
its rind stuck under your fingernails.
Juice spilling—
licking your lips with the same golden, bitter heat.
Let the pith cling to your hands, burrow there
like spoiled lace in the creases of your knuckles,
a ghost of a daughter you couldn’t bear to name.
Say it like an apology that came a heartbeat too late, sinking
into mildew buried beneath nailbeds, sour and white.
Too deep to name.
Too guilty to believe.
You can’t call it love
if the flower doesn’t…
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