Lend me some of your oranges, peel me some clementine from Jaffa and feed me the festive joy of the harvest season. Let us go you and I to Jaffa and lie under an orange tree in the afternoon sun in front of the sea and peel oranges until night fall until our scented hands spray balmy incense over the night-crickets and the moon.
Let us go you and I to Jaffa and plunge our bare feet into the cool soils of the orange groves while we watch the peels fall to the ground in romantic steady falls unto their tragic end. Let us eat oranges until no more orange is left to be eaten, and after we finish our feast, let us bathe in the salty sea, Jaffa’s sea; we’d lend it our sweet and sour fingertips, and we’d borrow its might.
Oh Jaffa here we come, she and I for a pilgrimage to the land of oranges, we shall come to pray your land be filled with fruit and soil and your people with fertile souls.
I used to wish you’d peel me as you’ve peeled clementine and you’d bare me as you have bared those round oranges. I had wished I had let you peel me and discover my insides over that small floral plate you used to peel over. I had wished you would peel me, and when you did, I wished you hadn’t, because unlike Jaffa’s glorious sweet oranges, I tasted bitter.
But until you peel me again, I shall peel my bitterness away.