Orange Juice -- poetry by Rebecca Guzman
We leave the orange peels on the counter,
quickly discarding them in our haste to squeeze
the fruit. Such is the ritual of our Sunday
mornings, making orange juice.
In the park, a young boy asks his mother why it is
that birds can fly but he cannot, why it is that
there are no flowers in the winter.
I tell you what I learned recently: honey bees
can communicate through dance; you are a good
dancer, I am not. Watching you spread
apricot jam atop the bread I over-salted, watching you
dispose of the orange peels, licking the stickiness
from your fingers, I wonder:
How much of life is a search for something sweeter?
Rebecca Guzman is a high school senior who spends most of her time annotating books, listening to Taylor Swift songs, and baking sweet things. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the National Council of Teachers of English, and The New York Times, among others. A New York City native, Rebecca looks forward to studying abroad and writing in more places than just her bedroom.