Paring the covering
Gives an insight
Of how others see
An affair uncovered,
An orange being solved.
I nibble at the heart of the matter,
But only after ten minutes
Or more
Of deep, careful, and reflective
Peeling of layers of rind.
The rind doesn’t come off clean
Or willing;
Juices squirt and jump
From one idea to the next.
White details, I don’t know
What they’re called, come
Up and off, slowly,
Meticulously.
I get the most joy from this.
At last I peel a piece of the fruit
From its tenacious neighbor,
The better half;
Solid, singular, I clean off any
Lasting attachments it still has.
The thin membrane of the barriers
Keeping juices from juices
Shreds instead of separates
Pulling off tiny orange-juiced
Treasures with it. I bite these.
The rest joins with the rind, the
White and stringy, and the
Unmentionable; forty-five
Minutes later I have
Chewed the situation over.
It is relaxation at its most,
The orange, a philosopher’s fruit;
A machine for thought. Apples
Receive too much credit.