There is so much poetry about oranges And it makes sense Because they are perfect for sharing Because the act of peeling an orange Because the work it takes to get to the juicy innards Because the taste of sweet, tangy citrus Because all of it feels like poetry But I have never liked oranges Never liked the way the stringy bits would catch between my teeth Never liked the way the clear membrane felt Breaking in my mouth And so I can never honestly write About peeling an orange And giving the juicer half to someone I love And I will never know what it means To offer citrus as intimacy And I will never understand Why this specific fruit Became shorthand for tenderness Because the metaphor is perfect Because the fruit lends itself to poetry So easily So I will still write a citrus poem I will go to the store And pick up the roundest, most vibrant orange And I’ll go home And peel it carefully Slowly And I’ll pay attention to how the peel and pith feel Against my nails And I'll break apart the segments Making a perfect plate Perfect for sharing With the ghost in my kitchen And I'll even take a bite I’ll pretend to savor that taste I’ll pretend that texture doesn’t bother me And I’ll eat it And I will see poetry In the tender, tangy citrus
