Gary Soto

    Oranges

    The first time I walked

    With a girl, I was twelve,

    Cold, and weighted down

    With two oranges in my jacket.

    December. Frost cracking

    Beneath my steps, my breath

    Before me, then gone,

    As I walked toward

    Her house, the one whose

    Porch light burned yellow

    Night and day, in any weather.

    A dog barked at me, until

    She came out pulling

    At her gloves, face bright

    With rouge. I smiled,

    Touched her shoulder, and led

    Her down the street, across

    A used car lot and a line

    Of newly planted trees,

    Until we were breathing

    Before a drugstore. We

    Entered, the tiny bell

    Bringing a saleslady

    Down a narrow aisle of goods.

    I turned to the candies

    Tiered like bleachers,

    And asked what she wanted -

    Light in her eyes, a smile

    Starting at the corners

    Of her mouth. I fingered

    A nickle in my pocket,

    And when she lifted a chocolate

    That cost a dime,

    I didn’t say anything.

    I took the nickle from

    My pocket, then an orange,

    And set them quietly on

    The counter. When I looked up,

    The lady’s eyes met mine,

    And held them, knowing

    Very well what it was all

    About.



    Outside,

    A few cars hissing past,

    Fog hanging like old

    Coats between the trees.

    I took my girl’s hand

    In mine for two blocks,

    Then released it to let

    Her unwrap the chocolate.

    I peeled my orange

    That was so bright against

    The gray of December

    That, from some distance,

    Someone might have thought

    I was making a fire in my hands.

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