oranges

poem | cover art by Alai Ganuza

      you grew up with a mother who would peel oranges for you      in a home where the fruit bowl is never empty      you learn to divide the slices      no matter how few they may be      and walk up to every person scattered through the house to offer their share
      and you want so badly to love yourself      so you try it on your own and      flecks of pith get under your nails      the slices are cold      you thought they might taste better refrigerated      despite your father’s distaste      it tastes nice      your fingers are left sticky. you don’t mind      you break it up and turn to hand half of what’s left
      there’s no one to share it with      there's no love in the gesture