I want to tear a page from the book of alliterations.

To get lost in an orange grove where blossoms

abound but bear no fruit. Here, they are losing

their language, but remember enough

to know what’s been forgotten. Still the women speak it

to dishtowels and bathwater. Sweep bits of it off the floors

and call it dust. There is never anywhere that isn’t here.

I’ve learned that more times than I can count before now.

Before now became then. Before then

became us. Before us ever was. I’m told

there was a tree

read more at Waxwing

Tagged: Beenish Ahmed, Beenish Ahmed poem, contemporary poetry, orange grove, Orange Grove poem, oranges, poem, poetry