A Little Snack

Peeling an orange is

inevitably

A sticky business.

There are no two ways around it.

On the tree, once they are a solid anaranjado hue,

It is hard to tell

ripe from sour.

With a slight tug or

how many turns of the stem is it?

The fruit should just fall off

If it's reached it’s peak.

A tree lit up with fruit in various

stages of completeness.

Each sphere contemplating how much more

strain it can bear.

Gravity is not a force to be reckoned with.

Not even the most perfect orange can disobey.

The ground below is a dizzying

fall from grace.

Peering down through tangled leaves and gnarled branches

day after day after day

they anticipate their fate.

For the lower hanging fruit the story is different,

at any moment impatient hands

might snatch it

prematurely.

I take my chances, after squeezing a few and

Pull.

In the kitchen

I remember the little plastic Pampered Chef tool.

I rediscovered it when we moved.

Did I put it with the garlic press and melon baller?

(everyone knows a knife and a spoon will do the job too)

I use it to start the peel in an

effort not to fill up my short, unmanicured nails.

In elementary school the imposing janitor was the

cafeteria bouncer.

Paunchy, bald and well over 6ft tall

He had a special tool of his own.

Hanging from his pants on a large ring

Amid the keys for the ball closet and the restroom paper towel dispensers

It too was used to “start oranges”.

He carved the peel like a Jack-o-lantern if you were

lucky.

I wasted entire lunches

waiting, arm held up high, flailing, in the air

(despite the throngs of  kids screaming

“me, me, me”

I was following the rules)

If only to be recognized.

The pith on this orange is so thick;

Naked, wrinkled, white

orb without its jacket.

I abandon the tool and

resort to my hands.

Attempting, gingerly, to spread the fruit apart

starting at the top separating the hemispheres.

It does not

split evenly.

I pry it into smaller wedges

removing the edible sections

Indiscriminately now

Tearing with fingers and teeth,

Liquid stickiness trickling down both wrists and chin.

Nothing comes apart

cleanly or evenly

and isn't this the point?

Shouldn't there be required pondering with dismantling,

separation and destruction?

Each bite a subtle explosion,

A quenching little mouthful

quickly devoured.

I press my body

against the counter

leaning in over the

sink.

Drip... drip... drip

Oranges are not for multi-taskers

papers, pens, books or iPhones will not

come through unscathed.

With single-minded focus

I notice the symmetry of each tiny

juice-filled pouch

thousands lined up

perfectly held together,

with nothing more than the

thinnest of skin.

As an afterthought I want to share with you.

Calling loudly through the house

I beckon you to the kitchen,

away from whatever was gripping your attention.

This last bite,

Product of my juicy labors;

Token of my affection.

You appear,

but do not share my enthusiasm

looking scornfully at my outstretched gift.

I encourage you to

“open wide”

You don’t even have to get your hands sticky.

You turn to leave,

but I momentarily keep you with my

sweet

sticky

lips.