of green, dangles from a stem with 4 others.
If I were home, I would pass right by it thinking it less than perfect.
I am a child and you are my mother.
Like a dance practiced since the first breath, you grip
three of the oranges in one hand, and a knife
in the other, removing the skin in one spiral.
Like the child, now holding the bare orange in my own hand,
I watch you, longing for a lesson in thirst.
Your hands cradle the orange, and your teeth
gently expose the top to our overflowing cups.
