My mother was a tree in a concrete yard. My father was the smog from a nearby rubber factory. I was conceived in a cough. The other fruits on my branch grew round and fat, dreaming of the juice bar, dreaming of the breakfast plate. They whispered of sweetness, of the simple, solar joy of being squeezed.
I am not an orange anymore. I am a map. I am a history. I am the smell of autumn in a forgotten coat pocket. And as I liquefy into the soil, feeding a single, stubborn dandelion that will push its yellow head through the concrete next spring, I realize the final, hilarious truth. I Am Kurious Oranj Rar
I dreamed of rot.
They called me Kurious because I asked questions. “Why must the peel be our tomb?” I asked the tangerine to my left. It told me to shut up and photosynthesize. My mother was a tree in a concrete yard
Everything, if you wait long enough, becomes a rare, curious, beautiful rot. The other fruits on my branch grew round