Content Warning: Suicide or Self Harm
Tangerine
Citrus sweetness sliding down skin like sweat,
sticky fingers, smiles dripping,
soda can slam,
squashed on the driveway
sticky fingers, smiles dripping,
soda can slam,
squashed on the driveway
When I was smaller, my mom would take me
to bead shops on the corner of nowhere.
She would search the tubs for inspiration
while I plunged my hands into cool, shimmering glass—
precious, common stones that rolled over each other,
clinking in a decadent dance in which I fumbled
with uncoordinated fat fists.
Cherry-lipped, summer sheen—
Tangerine,
the color of air.
The weight of a small stone sinking into the center of my palm,
each one containing its own sun inside leathery skin—
the peels curling like questions.
I have questions.
Like where do all the missing socks go?
What color were God’s birthday candles this year?
Like when did I realize mom didn’t go to the bead shops anymore?
As I grew taller, I couldn’t help but scrape my knees.
Each cap untapped like a blood orange,
bursting in tiny droplet bubbles—scarlet beads
tumbling across the field into a brown paper bag.
Take the spidery white-veined things,
membraned together in tens and twelves.
Sew myself a new skin that I promise not to cut into this time
—not intentionally.
Take the thin tough rind.
Knit together a pouch to place all my ugly things;
origami cranes folded with envy;
glass marbles filled of anger;
jewelry beads dipped in fear.
I am my mother’s daughter,
tangerine stand on the corner of someday and tomorrow,
intersecting here and never-found.
About the Author
Abigail Pak (she/her) is a recent 2022 college grad with a Bachelors in English from Westmont College. After spending the summer volunteering on a ranch—riding horses, wrestling calves, feeding chickens—in Wyoming, she is back home, writing when she can. She has been published in Phoenix Magazine and The Inkslinger.
