WINTER ORANGES

Mother’s fingers are stained
with orange peels.
She stands by the kitchen
and offers me orbs;
she wants me to live
a hundred years more.

Mirrors are painful,
my face is too round.
In harsh winter,
cheeks blossom
and soften into hers,
whose face I love.

I carry her as she carried me
inside her belly,
a little orange tree.
For as many years I’ll live,
I will brave through the winter
a quiet reminder
that I am
my mother’s daughter.

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