The Indicator x The Student: “Mandarin”

and she peels me

another mandarin. i imagine

we must look strange,

our mouths dripping juice like broken faucets

into the night. her black hair

falling further, with nothing below. the broken mirror hanging

above wet paint on bathroom walls. her face looking back into sharp glass. lips open wide

in search of a word that does not exist — grasping at the pieces, trying to hold on

gently. i watch her tenderly like a ritual. i study

her skin as if i’ve never known it before:

whole, beautiful, imperfect —

beneath my body it feels sticky. she licks

her fingers and spits out sugar, a honey wound. wǒ aì nǐ. i speak and go right through.

meng jia, don’t be afraid

if you look in the morning mirror

and realize you can’t see anybody looking back. you must understand:

the mandarin will not be here forever. like how the stars

turn white when you beg me

to tell you the truth and i fail

to speak — all my words falling back on citrus, your body

the space where my lips never part, the empty pit.

meng jia, are you listening? take your hands off the peel. i know you want

to pull it all apart, to taste something so real

that it makes you ache with beautiful intent —

but trust me. one day,

when we’re nothing but torn flesh, pulp pulled from rind,

when our eyes are closed and i can no longer feel you

i will tell you how i feel

shame. when she touches me

    in the middle of the night

i want to look her in the eye

    and tell her i’m flesh, her body peel

the two of us unraveling like blood oranges

    our skins impermanent, leaving our bones

until we finally see each other, translucent white. our sweat crashing into hard truth. losing

    our faces all over again. dear, what a shame.

but now she and i

   are peeling a mandarin

in the unlit kitchen, our faces wet

   from hunger. she feeds me

another piece and we dissolve

   into beijing heat, hot hands finding the seeds

our mouths spat though open stars

   those peeling places we never met

the pulp on the table drying,

   already dried. she hasn’t tasted how sweet it is. how flesh becomes lies. how    hard it is

   to look her in the eye. how sweet. how terrifying. how real. the mandarin —

   suddenly gone. and i taste mouthwash. her face, a shy beam of sun. ma, i    was

   born to eat words whole. orange fingers. the sound of the truth leaving her    lips.

   there is so much i want to tell you.

mandarin. citron confession stuck at the edge of my tongue. she once fed me a dream,

something quiet. we laid on our backs and waited for the moon to turn red. i tossed the peel

and felt it leave my hand. her skin touched mine. waiting like a whisper.