Blood Orange

Alone I gulp my orange juice
and stare at my desk where
a wasp that buzzed the light
for hours broke and fell.
Bled there, died, dried,
light as a ripped off fingernail,
a brittle little Icarus.

I root inside my cheek
for tats of citrus flesh
and shudder as some
slips out from my molars.
Snagged between white pages,
manifesto for a murder.
Not pulp, but a fuzzy wing.

It's bitter fruit,
and my back teeth won't hide
the glaring proof, livid as
a stained glass window;
the orange, smeared glass.
It is dead and drained,
and I have drunk its blood.