It’s sitting delicately in the fruit bowl,
deliberately in the fruit bowl
waiting to be Enjoyed
and Digested.
We,
yes We,
have the Obligation
the Fortune
to Taste it.
Looks so good we could Slice it.
Looks so good we could Juice it.
Looks so good we could
Doubt.
Doubt—
the thick grip
grows in the
Stomach.
How dare that orange lie to us!
How dare that orange look at us!
How dare that orange sit there so still!
We must prove that the orange is an Orange
to Ourselves.
Citrus Skins in Citrus Fingers,
scraping Flesh of the Fruit
just in case
it’s Decorative
(we wouldn’t want false Nature).
Now we have to be Ripping
for Chalky Bits.
Ripping
the Whole of it
until all that remains
is Remains.
We believed
it was Plaster,
which nobody
of the two of Us
could swallow.
emoody lives and writes in the Midwest United States. She works for 12Writing, an online resource hub for creative writers, and teaches creative writing as a Sutherland Fellow at Illinois State University.
