I used to tell people I was allergic to oranges
because I don’t like the way they taste;
the way they circle your tongue with bright fingers
of honey-sweet, glossed over a vapid bitter
like a carpet with a pet stain on the far edge.

In truth, they taste like everything they shouldn’t.
Halfway like childhood fevers,
halfway like gas station bathrooms
and entirely like a half-mopped tile floor.
Like hospital stays, like janitor closets,
like being stuck on a Florida freeway
losing direction amongst the orchards.

If I happen to pass the golden orbs
at the supermarket, happen to breathe
their silty wheeze,
I’m four years old
with a plastic syringe in my mouth,
screaming from an ear infection.
If a man in a green and white uniform
pours me a glass at continental breakfast,
I’m staring at a blinking IV machine,
watching my best friend writhe in the sheets.

Somehow I’m supposed to puncture
the bloated fruit with a straw,
splay out on the porch with a book,
and indulge in the succulence
of my hometown’s delicacy.
Somehow I’m supposed to peel one
when my nose runs and my eyes itch
to reap it of its alphabetized vitamin glory.
Somehow I’m supposed to overlook the gummy pulp
and the fingernail-stinging acidity
in favor of the sweetness.

I suppose I’ll stick to my claim that I’m allergic to oranges.
It’s much easier than convincing the world
that bad tastes can’t be masked by citrus.