Ripe Oranges
Orange flowers
explode into gold
under aging
moonlight,
their sweet smell
like love’s fever.
The oranges are plump
with spring, and we
slice them open.
Their bursting perfume
pierces the black air.
We eat them before
they fall, because we know
the universe does not see us,
because we know
we are candles
holding small flames
waiting for the wind.
Natalie Marino is a writer, mother, and physician. She graduated with a BA in American Literature from UCLA. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Capsule Stories, Emerge Literary Journal, Feed Lit Mag, Green Ink Poetry, Literary Mama, Moria Online, and others. She lives in Thousand Oaks, California.