The Orange

photo by sophie mcleod

The Orange

third year Meghan Hawley

Oranges make me think of poetry

The way their scent fills the air 

when I push my fingers into the supple flesh

The tart taste that spreads over my tongue

as I cradle the sweet mandarin in my mouth

The implications that their slices carry

a funny little thing that begs for distribution.

My roommate gave me one this morning

and she told me they brought good luck

It must have been especially prosperous

because it still had a single green leaf attached

Slightly dried but nevertheless still green

daintily clinging to the stem.

She didn’t peel her own fruit until recently,

up until college her mother always prepared the slices

and fed them to her from a blue ceramic plate.

Now she continues the same act of service

Although our plates are neither blue nor ceramic

the gesture holds the same comfortable weight.

I take the now naked fruit and halve it 

and halve it again

An orange was created to be split with its 

predetermined small subdivided segments.

I arrange the ochre fruit on a plate 

and slide it across the table

For I have never eaten an entire orange,

at least one slice is always meant to be shared.