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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Sunday, 29 June 2008

The cognac was finished, the ice now shards,
she made Dad quit smoking that year, and she
runs with dirty feet from Fatherís place at the head
of the long white table set for twenty-five, after
the tape of their youth was done, Auntie said
Flip it over. She was the joker in ESL;
her girls loved her, wanted to sit next to their auntie,
and the newlyweds started dancing, the grandmothers
playing cards in the corner, while the chef said,
You are such a good worker, my daughter! Ma cried
for her babies, two hours north off the I-405
on good days; they know only English! The young
women couldnít imagine as they fried plantains
and scooped vanilla ice cream into bowls
broken years later, into pieces
that pierced the softening white
song; those spoons opaque
in the slow stubborn slide into night.





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