"How to Make Fresh Orange Juice Without a God" by Danielle Warren

Wash your hands like the sinner you are

and gather the citrus. Take good care

as you cut through peel, pith,

and flesh. Bathe in the holy prep of it:

Your paring knife c-sectioning pits,

like bearing life and disposing of it.

Each cut is a confession. Don’t forget

to squeeze mercy out of every segment.

Pour the collection into a glass

or basket. Don’t ask any questions.

Now leave the cleanup for someone

else, someone less sacrilegious.

You can sell your orange juice

if you wish. Set up shop by

the man selling damnation

cloaked as salvation

on the street corner by

the health clinic. Leave

the river of space between you

and place faith in your distinct

business model: a trade

of sweetness. When a woman

approaches, offer her the fruit

of your labor

and only that. Take nothing

but her hand. If you both squeeze

hard enough, you might feel

the pulse of a whole grove,

of an earthquake that shakes

oranges off trees—

the thump, thump, thump of blood

of my blood, flesh of my flesh,

centuries of unrelenting sea.

Danielle Warren is a writer and editor living in New Jersey. She received her master's degree from New York University, and her poetry has appeared in the Eunoia Review and elsewhere.