Just an Orange

Just an orange.


A lopsided ball of citrus juice suspended in a fleshy matrix of stringy pulp,

Sitting in a bowl on my counter.

In my fingers, the heavy fruit dimly stirs up recollections, like sleepy bats startled into noonday sun.

Recollections of gently calloused hands.

Thoughts of blinding lights.

Glimmering jewels of warmth and voices muffled by heartbeat in forte.



Almost tenderly, my thumbnail pierces the thick carapace—

Resilient orange flesh wedges almost painfully into the tender pink flesh residing under the translucent shell of my thumbnail.

Tiny bursts of citrus oil flash into the air, refracting in the humming yellow kitchen light.

A sickening sound of membrane tearing away from membrane crawls in to my cognizance.



My tiny kitchen brims with the scent of pulsating life and the imagined smell of Minute Maid® commercials.



Naked, resting in the palm of my hand—leathery jerkin crumpled, discarded—

I stare into the white webbing weaving around each segmented piece—

—Almost quivering... And think I see the face of God.



Half, half, and half again, until eight segments bleed upon a paper floral napkin.



Brilliant colors blaze

Taste, texture, scent; senses glow

Orange awareness.