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