This city smells 
like my mother's hands 
after her favorite snack. 
After orange peels wrapped 
in paper towels get thrown

away, the citrus tang 
lingers. In Spain, the city trees

find root in neat squares of dirt

along the sidewalk and grow

heavy with citrus. Some 
days it rains orange fruit instead

of water and the cleaners 
go around picking up oranges

no longer good enough to eat 
in this proud, ancient city built on

the bones of Romans, Muslims,

and Spanish conquistadors. 

​

But I can't feel the history; 
the last takeover; when Muslims

gave the rule of the city to Castilian

Catholics. The bodies, withered

by the famine from the Siege 
of Sevilla left for the new kings 
to get rid of. Beneath the cement

the blood of the people 
can no longer be smelled. 
Only the scent of oranges. 
Like when my mother's nails 
slice through orange flesh.