by Jessica Otto
I pick up the orange of the kitchen counter
and cut into it with a haphazard, serrated blade
crusted with peanut butter sleeping in the sink
next to a greasy tilapia spine that found
its final resting place in my coffee mug.
Inside the orange is something like the pulse that
floats beneath your heart murmur. The juice
stings a paper cut when I try to dig out a seed that
is not the pearl I was expecting from this thing that
is not an oyster. And eat it anyway.
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"haphazard, serrated blade crusted with peanut butter sleeping in the sink" - love it, reminds me of student days in our second year digs when such thing as washing up were just somebody else problem. Great image.
ReplyDeleteBeen pondering this poem all week and it's still just as strong as the first read. Wonderful.
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