Clementines
my son peels a clementine
in one fell swoop, the orange
pocked skin hanging like
a torn remnant.
I tell him I don’t really like
clementines. He says write
a poem about how you
don’t really like clementines
then he walks to the kitchen
and puts the peel in the
food recycle bin and
eats the tangy bulbous bits.
My tastebuds lift, turn away,
at the mere thought of the citrus
fruit on my tongue. Bleck. My
daughter bakes giant cookies
with her boyfriend, also in the
kitchen; the puppy underfoot,
drowsy with the exhaustion
of growth and play.
There are five clementines
left in the red plastic mesh
bags they told us kill fish.
I’m thinking of Mary. Today
she sees her son again.
Resurrected. I bet they
shared clementines in the
heat of other Sunday
afternoons, watching
Josef build a shelf or
a table.
VANESSA SHIELDS 