Eating oranges over the sink,
the segments like
someone she kissed in every season apart from the autumn,
when she smelled like perfume
from a magazine and she
was indoors

and he wasn’t.

He’s grassy. She’s
scratching at the raspberry juice on the dashboard,
the pasts she used
to claim and the things her fingers once played with (before the

segmented season
sitting at home,
laying fallow for
finding bats the size of bees
on TV
cheap train deals
away from the ordinary August
house prices
and recipes
that call for lemons
from down the road).

Now she watches online,
enters competitions to pass the time,
wears silk on a Tuesday

to leave the house for apricots, just to be told to
“walk between the lines
of tape please, young lady”