JUPITER PEELS AN ORANGE FOR PLUTO

Jupiter peels an orange for Pluto
when hailstorms were trying 
to read their love letters 
in backward fashion.
The alphabets reminded them 
of leaf stalks without flowers, 
so they dropped them on the floor 
as a punishment for 
the smoothness they had.
A boy with anecdotes in his head 
found them funny, 
like the soggy laugh of a bullet 
mocking the birds that can fly, 
but can't hurt.
Like the cheap fairytale mothers cook 
for hungry children whose legs were 
left inside God's wardrobe.
So he took them to polish 
the shoes of a dictator 
with stone knuckles and marble heart 
hoping for a bed made up of green skin 
of an extinct reptile with 
dotted marks of sorrow on it.
He wanted to gift it to his lover who,
for the lack of metaphors, 
couldn't once describe 
what heart break feels like.
Her vanity mirror was better educated 
to know that ice-cream can 
also be i-scream, 
losing all the sweetness along with 
the tender proof of existence.
That's why it gave a blanket to melancholy, which was dreaming of green apples, 
with their lips stitched to prevent
them from differentiating 
autobiography and biography.
When melancholy found the letters 
inside a nuclear power plant, 
the molecules were trying to 
map them inside their own brains 
to cajole the catastrophes of 
their love making under blue light.
Grief with its long tail stole the papers 
and decided to post them away 
because the cries at 
cremation grounds for flowers 
were getting so louder that 
the stories with shells sewed by grandmothers were breaking.
Under the pleated drapes of clouds 
the letters rested, 
along with the scissors that were
once used by a suicide note 
to get a haircut so that 
it can be a poem.
Jupiter peels an orange for Pluto
and their letters were twisted into stars,
and the clocks stopped their brass dance 
to define love to a sleepwalking firefly.



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