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Lucy Burrowes
fuck your tangerines
I used to want to share oranges
with you — split the sections singlehanded
and watch you lick the juice from your lips.
Or maybe I could talk about
how you felt like the home I thought I'd lost.
Breathing spaced click in key-lock.
I used to want
everything with you but now
I want space and my own fruit bowl,
no more sharing -
my hands tire of
citrus-bloom scars.
fruit bowl
love is made
in the splitting of a tender orange’s slices
white pith string and
mess of a pomegranate
purpling juice ruddying hands
in task, in duty, in chore
but love
persists
when
bite-sized pieces of ripe banana
are coaxed between cracked chapped lips
when the last slither of her favourite fresh mango
sits in the fridge,
when his fingers tremble weakly over the grapevine
and she pries free what he can’t
and love
persists
with
prepared pre-sliced apple with peanut-butter on a friday morning
blueberries scattered in the shape of a smile
for how china-plate becomes mirror
strawberries, served with cream dairy-free
love
remains
when task, duty, chore
become a first-thought routine
and the juice on your hands
doesn’t feel like a stain,
but rather a reminder
of your touch
Lucy Burrowes is a UK-based poet, writer and a part-time lesbian. She is 21
years old and goes by she/her pronouns. Her work dissects the inherent
otherness of growing up autistic, love and dogs. In her spare time, she can be
found writing about her friend’s characters, spending scandalous amounts of money in the West End and collecting vintage pin badges.
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