Dominique Ahkong
Ode to Peeling an Orange
To sink a thumb into the hollow
nub of a fruit — reaching for the flesh
so the tab of skin I lift won’t break off
as I peel a spiral from the top — juice
pools on my tongue and I picture
my grandmother new to the island
at twenty. Ten pairs of eyes barnacled
to her back. When her veil
was lifted, did she weep or bare
her teeth? And when my grandfather
offered her a navel orange, did he peel it
for her? Maybe he knew she longed to feel
the weight in her palm, even if her cracked
hands stung as she unraveled the
pebbled leather in one long, coiled trail.
When she sucked juice from her cuts,
that, too was comfort. Nothing was wasted,
of course. I know my siblings and I grew up
lucky, eyeing plump yellow arils
pulled from spiked armors of fruit
heaped in the back of a truck in a parking lot
shaded by trees in June, in July.
A small yellow pillow
of fruit held with the fingers.
The creamy notes fluttered
and settled warmth in our stomachs, little
colonies cooled by barley water
simmered into fog.
The rest of the year I plucked
white threads from oranges I’d peeled
and held the pithed carpals up —
a peace offering to a little god
whose door I watched
open and close.
Introduction to American Cities
There was a list. I was told to dress
for United Nations Day
in red, white, and blue. I stood on stage
in my best friend’s striped cotton clothes
while “The Star-Spangled Banner” played.
The mistake was never corrected.
Where are you from?
asked my classmate’s mother.
She started to list American cities.
I thought I heard her say, She-cargo.
For years I carried the question
inside me, asking no one for an answer.
Dominique Ahkong is an Arizona-based writer of Hakka-Mauritian descent. Her poetry appears in The Georgia Review, Best New Poets, The Southern Review, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. She co-edits Shō Poetry Journal. More: dominiqueahkong.com or @domkeykong.
Artwork: “Rush” by Daniel Lurie
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