Citrus

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