Liz Dobson

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.