Oranges- New Draft

Oranges

I.
He sells the rinds only, the peels
sitting on the wood that makes
something homemade, and waves
as the cars slow past, inviting them
with a smile that shows teeth
like ice or sugar cubes.

The thieves are here though, will
sneak away with his casings
for their own dessert.

II.
Her echolalia says: scissors, slivers,
as she prepares the black kettle
by licking away the rust.

The tea sits on the counter waiting to be drowned.

III.
The boy who lives in his own palms is a collector
of teeth from the children who fight.

At six o’clock he wonders what he will do
with the rest of his life knowing:
                         words are not worth the time.

Tomorrow he will awake with crushed
petals in his teeth from his mother’s
prized gardenias.

IV.
The gardenias tell the boy’s mother stories
about sound.  While she still licks, scrapes,
they slip her nightmares like alcohol.
The boy will never speak, they yell inside of her.

V.
The gardenias give the boy lost lines of poetry
like pie crumbs which his own case of echolalia
repeats to the sound of his own teeth falling
to the floor- each bone realizing their closest
muscle will not use them for word making.

VI.
She awakes, the gardenias silent now,
(her own head still saying: scissors,
sliver) and calls to her husband to bring
his rind home
                      (what the thieves don’t take)
because their son can no longer eat solids.

Tonight she will boil and smash
them, feed boy through a straw.

For dessert she will attempt to fasten
the teeth of the fighting boys to his gums.