Orange Picker

by Vanessa Blakeslee

The mirror cracked
when you threw your shoe
but I left it up
so that every time
you close the door
to shut me out,
there you’d be
face to face
with your cracked self.

You’ll sulk and brood in there,
underneath the ceiling fan
with the lightbulbs
the size of oranges,
and bright white with heat.

You’ll sit in there so long
that one by one, the bulbs will burn out,
and you will reach up and
pick them off
as if you are picking oranges
in your grandmother’s front yard
and placing each one into a crate.

Only you’ve picked out my heart
and tucked it in the crate, too,
underneath the oranges, split
and loose with their sweetness.

A graduate of the MFA in Writing at Vermont College of Fine Arts, Vanessa Blakeslee's work has been recognized by grants and fellowships from the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Yaddo, and the United Arts of Central Florida, and has appeared or is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, The Bellingham Review, Green Mountains Review, and The Southern Review, among other journals.