Citrus
this one's about love too, yes
As he’s holding an orange, I tell him how, because of that Wendy Cope poem, the fruit has become the universal symbol for love. He starts peeling as I ramble on about how, like love, an orange’s scent instantly fills the room, affecting everyone in it. He finishes just as I'm explaining how, again like love, oranges are meant to be shared.
He places the plump, round flesh on my palm—the whole of it. I hand him half back, and it dawns on me how silly I am, telling him all this, when he's the one who studied how to make sense of poetry, the one who once patiently explained to me the many ways kneeling can hold meaning in a line. Back when I still thought of love in abstract terms, as something to mythicize, store in a 5D realm, and paint divine.
But there is nothing abstract about this.
Early on, I told him how I hated the act of peeling citrus, that I couldn’t stand the feeling of acid sitting between my nails. He has peeled all of my oranges since.
I guess it comes as no surprise when I say it’s because of him that, now, I know: Earth, love is. Steady ground. Soft concrete against my knees.
