The Mandarin, in season - Autumn / Orange in colour, so tasty, an every day activity: enjoying each segment.
A poem by Cassandra de Alba.
On the mountain overlooking your family’s house
in Santiago, I sat watching you undress yourself
of the oranges in season, take them for anything
but remembrance, then begin to feed yourself.
What tree told you to swallow nature
whole and leave nothing behind. Why not ask
the fruit, have you always grown here?
In London, there is nothing in season. Only the
rain grows, so I pick the leaves from the
orange in my chest, asking how rotten