Oranges             & the dark green groves, the corrugated
                             aluminum siding of the trailers—hot against my back

                             & J-E-S-U-S on the radio. & My father
                             strumming a guitar.

My mother        pinching me hard on the arm those Sundays
                             speaking in tongues. & My sister, her palms

                             mounded with sand & the coquina wriggling
                             through

her fingers        as though safety was a place we could name.
                             & Again, sisters in a river the color of black tea,

                             hair pooling between & around our legs & the cypress
                             knees & skinny arms we used to hold each other

close.                  & My brothers lifting weights & waiting-out
                             afternoon storms. & The smell: orange blossom,

                             asphalt, the wooden insides of guitars, hot and spiking
                             like the heat

lightening         flaring in the clouds above. & Again, my father
                             as Othello, as a child, as Carl Anderson as Judas.

                             & Hey Oreo! & Hey Zebra & Spic!
                             & Fingers

tugging               & braiding & knotting my hair & the palms outside

my window       papery & brown & folded like hands

whispering        welcome,
whispering        storm.