The housing development in Florida we moved to
in 1972 had been carved out of an orange grove.
Our split style ranch had six trees and a pool
for 42 grand. When we moved in construction
was still going on, acres of orange trees collapsing
behind our back fence with streets and new houses
slowly filling in the gouges: Noise by day, seeping
groans in the darkness at night. Cracker wilderness
balding to suburb, briars and snakes under concrete.
I was 13 so my memories of the two years we lived
there are heavy with puberty’s brilliant tang.
There was sexual ardor and mystery just in the way
I squeezed quarts of juice from the oranges I picked.
The pulpy mouthpubis of quenching, the sudden flow
of cold sweetness thrilling down through the groin.
Everything back then was either getting or taking,
picking this girl or another and trying to…