Today my mother said that she liked the smell of oranges.

She said, look how good this sounds:

my hair smells like oranges,

my father grows oranges in California,

my mother eats oranges in the afternoon. But I knew

that my mother would never eat oranges in the afternoon,

would never eat an orange while

there was a grapefruit. Knew she would never

call her father in California if he lived there

because California is fake.

She knows herself she doesn’t smell her own hair,

and she doesn’t care what she puts in it.

She knows it’s not about the brand,

it’s about the purpose behind the brand.

She knows that oranges aren’t as healthy, that if

you have diabetes, you’ll die sooner than someone

else. She knows that the cookies

at Walmart are chalky and filled with sugar.

That there is protein in cheese, that

one daughter is tired, and the other

won’t settle down.

She has anxiety, but refuses to admit it,

says that counting to yourself

is normal. She complains all the time how teens are

stuck and can’t think right. Says I am a teenager.

Knows that I work ambitiously,

knows that when I think wrongly, I know that I am wrong.

She knows that I don’t listen. She knows that I’m a faker

at home, that I like Dad more. That I will

one day leave the house and drink

from a keg at three in the morning.

She looks at my body and knows that A-line dresses

look better on me because I am short.

She tells me that I have an oval

face, tells me to eat Greek yogurt and exercise more. Says I

look greedy for attention when I wear those clothes. She tells

me You smile nice. Tells me that I don’t smile enough.

Taught me to smile while I sing, taught me to cross my legs,

taught me to be scared, taught me that being anxious

is part of living. Told me that I better listen to her, because she’s been around.

Tells me that I might die one day from being fat

if I don’t move, tells me that I’m not ladylike,

to stop putting on makeup. Tells me that if I

moisturized I wouldn’t have wrinkles. Tells me don’t settle, fight.

She tells me oranges are for the sweet kind

of people who pretend to love their mothers. Oranges

won’t tell you what’s wrong.