Oleander

She stares out the car window.
How the dirt between rows of orange trees
sprint like legs alongside us.

We are the many glasses of wine we drank:
Shiraz, Sauvignon blanc.
Air inside the car
warms the blushed tips of her ears.

She is short of breath, she knows better
than to have eaten a handful of pistachios.
She ignores her body, my hand
sometimes reaching through silence,
stopping short of the cushion between us.

I stand in the orchards,
listen to the sound oranges make
when they let go, their skin torn
open from the fall.