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The Orange MAG
Perched on the side
of the counter; she's a pumpkin-colored canary.
Sun washes across her rough dimpled skin
gently glistening with sweat as
the glow refracts off of her glossy peel,
shattering the light into millions of orangey fragments.
Young hands fold around the bright
sphere, almost spongy to the touch.
A thin fingernail burrows into her
firm, thick flesh, pulling it apart;
shredding it into layers of white foam
as tangy mist bursts into the air,
each fleck illuminated by the brilliant rays.
The separate sections, each one
like a crescent moon, holding tiny
pouches of juice, plunge to the table in
free fall, completely carefree; they
bounce with excitement upon contact.
The soft fingers, dripping with
tears of the fruit, collect the moons
into a disheveled heap,
cradling them as though they are
weaved from threads of glass.
As though they are whirled around a
spinning wheel of liquid gold.