My mother peels an orange for my father;
weary are her
wrinkled fingers
and worn out nail polish
when she breaks apart flesh

I never understood why my father loved oranges;
impatiently he sat
watching pulp seep
into mother’s fingernails—
i wonder if he winced too

Father, are your hands so important that you couldn’t lift them?;
acquainted so much with
the edges of drills and chainsaws
that an orange would fall through
if you attempted to hold one?

Daughters are never as tolerable;
i hate oranges and
the way the juice soils my blouse
leaving stains that will remain
if i’m not careful

But I thought about peeling an orange once;
only to satiate my curiosity
and to see what’s at the center
but oranges only have
circular cycles you can cut in halves

And the bitterness of an orange was all I knew;
when my father rotted
my mother continued to peel
for the empty chair
at the end of the dining table

Oh Father, where did you go?;
did mother’s sweat bleed into the bud
making it too sour for you? before you
left, did you ever ask mother
if she even liked oranges?

Mother, should we grow apples in our backyard?;
as big and ripe as your heart
look, we can even gift some to our neighbor
and the girl child she’s been nursing

Mother, you don’t have to peel oranges anymore;
i prefer apples, grapes, and strawberries
so go ahead and paint your nails
and look as your little girl takes a chainsaw
and chops down every single orange tree