there’s peace in the sky,

gentle raspiness spilling out

from the tongue of the sun

and my fingers reach up

to feel the skin of my mother,

grasp her cheek to make sure

she doesn’t disappear.

this morning i drank orange juice,

sinewy pulp, sundew bubbles crowning

the edge of my esophagus.

then lodged in my throat, something

like blood and rock,

my eyes turn to slits and my mother’s

mouth hangs open.

i clutch my neck, warm, and

tongue pink with apprehension

as i choke out a silver sliver of bullet.

only as small as the crescent of my nail,

it sits in a pool of liquid, shining saffron,

dripping through the cracks of my palm.

my mother swears that she picked

the oranges from the garden,

swears up the bark and

down in the soil, pressing her fingers over

my throat.

i peer into my glass cup,

fisheye, rim swallowing my face

and my fishbowl in the corner,

surrounded by plastic skyscrapers.

she‘s all orange sunset bubbling scales

shimmering above water,

eyes argent and petrified.

there was plastic in her stomach,

the vet says.