#kitchenscene

But here we are — dissecting a pomelo
warmed by my car radio on Sunday and weekdays
of sitting by the west window watching us move
in rotation, disks among a sliding axis,
gravity now propping us against the counter top,
in the kitchen, admiring the thickness
of the pomelo skin. As if it’s waited so long to be unpeeled.
Grown swollen and fish-pink in longing. We pull it apart
cell by cell. I’ve never swallowed
poetry like this. These coral citrus segments could be light-moons
like hearts at the beginning of things — 8 moon flips
on Jupiter, says the radio, that night, the tides pulling
us under the lemon tree, twisting our names
into reoccurring rotation. You’re slicing me,
citrus moon. This is candy, yeah, like that.