Spanish Orange

This saturated baby skull has fallen.
It rolls toward my sandled feet from off
it's tree. The navel iris staring at me
as if the eyeball had been deadened gray
and plucked from a cyclops.

I pick it up, and we are aquainted.

I think you're an alien but you're native.
My thumbnail runs over your coarser pores
and penetrates your skin to see if your insides
are different from normal
or to know your bloody inards.

A fleshy ball of threads and meat
that's stinging puss latches to a hangnail.

This is the venom I have chosen.
This is the foreigner's control.