Your mystery leaves me nettled.

Was it because Marie est malade?

Least unsettled,

The Portuguese’s quince: soft and tender in yellow?

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I’ll spread you on toast,

A glistening sticky path for my incisors.

At twilight the aroma of Columbian roast,

An accompaniment like no other.

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No one likes bitter oranges,

No one eats peels.

To the trash they make voyages,

but the efficient cook never wastes.

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Of citrus and sugar,

Combined despite differences.

Mutual friendships that form a Utopia of vigor,

A masterpiece of recycled could-have-been trash.

-Nayla Carrasco