My father wanted me to marry a barrow boy,
he imagined the smell of oranges going
before me, everywhere, my dresses
drenched in citrus

We would pick the best and sell the
rest, holding them in our hands like
precious gems, we would eat them
in front of each other, juice
spilling from our lips, we would
lick the pips away and swallow
mouthfuls of flesh

My father wanted me to marry a barrow boy
to keep the fruit of his labour
alive