The Offering

He held the mesh bag like a heavy heart.

The oranges were soft, one of them weeping

a sticky, pale syrup onto his knuckles

while he told me he was sorry for the noise.

I didn't want the fruit. I wanted the grudge,

the sharp, clean edge of being the one

who was wronged. I wanted to keep the bark

ringing in my ears like a bell I could use.

He touched the doorframe when he turned,

leaving a wet, sugary print on the wood.

I'm standing in the dark of the hall now,

staring at the mark, waiting for the fruit to sour.