You turn on the radio.
Baby, hold me tighter, it sings to you,
baby, never let me go.
A body full of fists.
The secret, you think, is to squeeze
nail into palm and always hold on.
The world must not peel your fingers away piece by piece
like oranges as citrus fills your room.
The music murmurs to you in the lamplight
as it peels you apart, whispers,
time isn’t a god, baby.
You undress. You take off your shoes.
Pinecone in heat,
You grow a whole orchard of oranges, of citrus,
of never letting go.
There the leaves open and close
Like lips on fire.
You know what they’re hungry for.
Baby, baby, baby.
This is time.
This is my voice on the radio.
Open your fingers baby.
I wanna smell the citrus.
Eliza Moore, age 15, is a 10th grader who attends The Center for Creative Arts in Chattanooga, Tennessee. She loves reading, writing, and visiting the ocean.
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