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Peelings

Julia Rietmulder-Stone

I don't like oranges: not the juice,
not the soda, and certainly not
the fruit itself. But when I spy
a slice on someone else's plate,
left there by the chef, as decoration
only, or maybe intended as a light
end after a Belgian waffle or even
eggs benedict, just a slice
juicy flesh exposed, hugged
by its vibrant rind - my mouth waters.
Or, better yet, a single section,
surrounded by its own discarded peel
on someone else's paper towel.
I can hardly help myself, I have to ask
a simple question, a quiet "please?"
at the end, wondering if it will be enough
to bring not only a hand extended
in offering, but maybe also a smile,
maybe a little bit of joy - the kind
that comes only from giving away
what one has so carefully uncovered.

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