b a r b a r a  f l e t c h e r: other poems


Oranges

Her hands clasp my face
grip shining cheeks with leathered
palms that smell of oranges
"We give ourselves away
through words" she smiled
and released her citrus grip

Up the aisle I trudged
trailing metres of lace and silk
hands wound around clumps
of white blossoms meant to give me luck or courage
(or something in between)

He grasped my hands
with fierce nervousness
fingernails buffed and cleaned
with orange sticks
My lips spoke "I will"
and I gave myself away.