Sometimes, instinct called me
from my books to witness,
and I’d lean on the Formica counter,
watching her fingers.

There is a delicate point
just after rind is dislodged,
white fibers threaded,
and fascia loosened,
membrane by membrane.
There is a delicate point,
a micron,
a moment,
before an orange
dissolves into liquidity,
yields its chambers,
offers its bulbous cells
to pink-tongued destiny.

My grandmother knew
just when to pause
and let the gelatinous gems
slide into a melamine bowl,
knew just how many of those gems
comprised appropriate indulgence
two hours before a savory dinner —
one product of one day
within one century of labor.

I slurped and sighed
and never knew
I was eating love.


Dheepa R. Maturi is the director of a nonprofit fund in Indianapolis and a graduate of the University of Michigan (A.B. English Literature) and the University of Chicago. Her poems and essays have appeared in Every Day Poems, Tweetspeak Poetry, A Tea Reader, and Here Comes Everyone.    www.DheepaRMaturi.com

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