ALT 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 Porchlight 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

ALT Of newly planted trees, Until we were breathing Before a drug store. 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 nickel in my pocket, And she lifted a chocolate That cost a dime, I didn’t say anything. I took the nickel from My pocket, then an orange, And set them quietly on The counter. When I looked up,

ALT 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. —Gary Soto