Peel it into shapely shards,
Your strong fingers linger
As the zest sprays the room with scents
Of Spain and sunshine.
Then you separate the sections skilfully,
Sliding each slice into your salivating mouth,
Each piece still in its pithy shroud.
You care not where sharp peel odours linger
But you treat each segment with a dry precision.
I
Take it whole upon a plate,
Cut through the equator then the meridian,
A cruel serrated knife results in equal pieces.
No fragrant peel is bruised.
Some little juice runs on the plate.
I push a piece up to my teasing teeth,
Bite and suck it, all in one,
Tearing flesh from skin quite cleanly,
A passion of gorging juice,
All in one.
My mother
Would take an orange, roll it, squeeze it,
To release the juice inside,
Ram in a sugar cube with her hardy thumb,
Then such out the cordial, juice and sugar,
As a baby sucks its mother's breast,
Kneading the orange as a baby kneads the breast.
You, precise and measured,
I, direct and impatient,
She, primitive and laughing, wasting no time on trivialities like orange peel.