My hands are softer than before, they
mimic the rose petals but the honey bee won’t come.
The oranges are on the counter, peeled,
and you smile at me like I know.
I don’t know.
Or rather, I think I do know but I’d rather you were telling me something else.
The other day you asked me to help you write a poem,
and I wanted to tell you,
“You already are poetry, in the way you roll up your sleeves, the way you laugh,
your voice and its accent foreign from the country of open flowers and sherbet sunsets and long river walks.”
Peel off the citrus.
Taste the flesh.
You don’t know.