Orange

I am at a table with an orange I’ve peeled,
like knuckled pages written with a palm.
I held your palms once,
as if you had given them to me
to prove I would not understand
what I would taste.
I know now
with these peels in my fingers.
I understand how far they reach,
and eventually
their thinness,
the depth they could not go
without bone,
even the sweetness.

– ph, Guelph, ph 6/6/16