orANGes aRe not the onlY fruit

The island on wheels in the middle of our kitchen still smells new on the inside

If you've ever put your nose right up against an old plank of wood, you'd know the smell--that, and Styrofoam painted blue

It's the kind of smell that makes me nauseous, curls up my nostrils, down into my throat, and sticks there

I've gotten headaches before, putting dishes away--bright sparks that bang like fireworks when I close my eyes

A few weeks ago, I sat down on the floor and leaned against the front of it, my weight making the wheels jolt away

I put my fingers on my thighs and pushed until the skin dented, tried to ignore the smell slinking out of the open cupboard doors

There was a book on my mind, in my hoodie pocket

I had bought it for a friend I no longer have, read it so I could fold a fond memory over the old one

Frustration made the idle nausea bitter and burnt

But I guess I closed the cupboard doors and went back to bed and finished the book

Because the nausea still finds its way to me sometimes, but it's not quite acrid anymore

Because I have apples and pears and raspberries to eat in the morning, and more books to read, and a linen-scented Febreze bottle if I really need it

But there’s still plenty of time for the newness to air out, my bitterness to curdle and rot and fall away, and now I hold my breath when I put Tupperware and old rags and pots on their shelves, reclamation tingling and tight on my tongue