Haven't been picked yet.

Because I haven't, I'm jealous
like your boyfriend, scrutinizing
your too short skirt, that thin top
that reveals too much. His eyes,
once brown like the small mole
under your nose, ignite to a passionate
red, a glossy apple-hue like lipstick;
you'll wink kisses
for cute guys at the bar, barely
twenty-one. Because I haven't,

I'm jealous like your girlfriend
checking your work pants
for folded-up napkins
with suspicious numbers, and the fly,
especially, for applesauce stains.
Garbage litters the bathroom floor
for extra condom wrappers, ones
for flavors she doesn't like: strawberry.

And I'll be picking oranges off the ground
of this old city like lost hearts, foraging
for the unbruised. But everyone's acidic
and moldy, this basket empty for years.
My skin is bright, the fruit heavy
with juice, ready to be sucked dry:
I'm jealous, you see? Here I am
hanging from these leafy branches
and no one has picked me yet.