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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.

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