Blood orange / belle-mère

Orange blood

these hues I bleed

I’ve craved its juice since pregnancy

I drank her grief and spit the seed

And planted trees to smoke

My mother’s father went to buy

some oranges before he died

He said “I bet you want me gone”

his joke became her truth

He suffered from a heart attack

then died and never made it back

My grandma mourned forever since

she’s always dressed in black

As a child he’d get upset

Whenever mom would taste the pulp

he said she’s wasting all that fruit 

by turning it to juice

Pregnant from her second child

She craved an orange all the time

I was born a fruitful seed

with OJ in my blood

When I sucked the segments dry

I never ate the pulp

But once she made me eat the pulp

I threw back in my bowl of soup

And when I did it tasted gross

I learned to never waste the pulp

like Grandpa taught my mom

so many years and months before

Now she sips it every day

To cope with daddy’s gone, I think

She named me after Mr. Pulp

I think of Grandpa when I drink

Portokal means orange 

both in arabic and turkish

as the southern coast gets lots of sun

they’re always sweet and perfect

If Grandpa never shamed her 

into never drinking juice

Never died whilst getting oranges

She wouldn’t want them too

If she didn’t crave that pregnant fruit

I wouldn’t tell this tale

Across three generations

Orange guilt perpetuates