ORANGES

this week i opened a small, splotched pomegranate

it was measly and promised to be from California

i sliced a hexagon into it's crown. inside the bulbs

remained white and pink while the inner skin browned

i sighed, tossed it, picked a cara-cara from the fruit bowl

and broke it into crescent moons, slurped the juice devoutly.

color is hard to come by. color is a flavor of surprise,

acidic, tart, full of light. looking up, the neighborhood trees

are bare except for layers of fresh snow. if i look straight out

through the yards the naked branches cross one another like bramble

like the mangled woods prince phillip must hack to reach

his beloved sleeping beauty. except here, everything sits

in the backdrop of winter storm. from their warnings, i had pictured something 

aggressive, howling, violent. in the end, the snow falls silent. 

i light my sad lamp. hold my orange cat in the pink armchair

by my window. over zoom, i meet my new doctor. 

i describe my history of fainting, my trouble breathing. 

she's confused. i'd answered the intake questionnaire with no "yeses"

when asked about depression and anxiety. im okay, i tell her,

i really am. after, i step out for the first time today, make new marks 

in the untroubled snow, hold an orange in my palm, like that Soto poem, 

and it burns with surprise.