The Oranges

The oranges in the bowl have moulded over, 

fending off the cold from the cracked window. 

Flies kiss them gently, as they age and carve out 

weathered wrinkles forming on their backs. 

We shared one before we left and forgot about the rest, 

divided each segment, between us, like friendship bracelets, 

twisted round thirsty tongues. The peel lies discarded, 

a skinned corpse for the others to mourn.

The oranges in the bowl are dying.

We will discard the remnants of their danse macabre next term. 

When they have grown into each other,

scraping furry green dust away, ready for the fresh ones to share.