Ferrara-A prose poem by Liz Rector

Factory forced orange scented fructose floated towards me as soon as the plastic box was opened and out of sight. The foil was cool against my fingers and I wanted so badly for this to be edible, but I knew it would clash with my tastebuds. Perhaps if it were a real, fresh blood orange...dipped in melted decadent dark chocolate of a decent caliber then left to cool with grains of sugar sprinkled gingerly on top...it might be good. But this was fakery. And worse yet, once the globe was unwrapped and divested of its foil facade, the chocolate ball refused to crack apart. 

I hesitated to simply bite it for the anticipated sugary sting it would inflict on my incisors. I pried at it with my thumbs and pulled on it with my fingers. My blood red nails left crescent kisses on its dappled surface. It stuck to itself, safely impenetrable, a sphere of frustration. I let a hysterical giggle slip as my digits did the same. Finally, I enlisted a white plastic soldier with nubby serrated defenses. I jabbed at the thing with the cutlery and nearly caused it to roll away. 

Maybe it would have been better if it had simply careened off the corner of the college cafe table. I felt tempted to simply pick it up and throw it with all my might against a surface. Any surface. The wall, the table, the floor. The satisfaction of watching it crack open might negate my hunger. But there were already eyes hot on my body, ears piqued for my huffs of frustrations and muttered curses. My latte sat nearby untouched, as I went to war with a waxy last resort selected to stave off my starvation. I didn't even like these things. I should have just gone home, but class was starting soon. 

I wished to turn it into something else...maybe a chocolate covered cherry with a shell that gave way beneath my molars. Sticky sweet red of summer flesh tearing, mixing with cloyingly sweet white cream. Chocolate melting in the heat of my inferno mouth. Digested by my delight and caressed by the unspoken words that lived on my tingling tongue. But this was no cherry. It was an imposter. An enemy soldier that would only lift my blood sugar to unceremoniously drop it in the middle of poetry without warning. I hated it. And finally, after intense fork and knife interrogation, it cracked. I stole a slice, gave a maniacal laugh and forced a wedge down my throat before realizing that I was out of time.