I was an orange grove goddess
growing up, at 16,
on Carne Rd.
I would dance to made-up harmonica melodies
as I meandered through orchards,
sugary dirt between barefoot pedicured toes.
I kissed real and imaginary boys
among the unchartered waxy leaves;
we would weave in and out of the cool sweet shadows, and the whitewashed trunks bejeweled with snails.
These summertime games of hide and seek
and unabashed innocence
would disappear one day
as I left my childhood behind
in those innumerable rows of
warmth and earth and youth.
But my Aphrodite dreams
will forever remain
budding, like the white-blossomed fragrance
of my orange grove intoxication,
shuddering and lingering still.