We sat on the floor as you began, and
you told me how she showed you the way
to skin the sun in one single swoop.
But the burn you learned by yourself.
It happened when you were finished,
at the moment you pressed the peels to bitten lips,
during the time you smelt the layers stuck to your
The sticky sweetness was enough.
You explained why before speaking of Shiva,
and Ganesha and someone else I cannot remember, but
I do recall how you didn’t like it when I stepped over
Once you asked, I would step back over, so
you could grow tall and lean, but – now –
I don’t know what you look like, whether
you grew or peeled or warned others of the burn.
I’m only left with my steps, and my inability to peel has not changed.
But I do know – now – how you shouldn’t have had to ask me to step back over,
because I never had to ask you.
You always peeled two oranges at the same time,
just so I didn’t have to burn. For that reason, I know
how you grew far above me.
Even back then, you were always tall and lean.
YOU ARE READING
This is an interactive poetry series. Every Friday I will post a new poem, and after four poems, I will make a video. Based on your votes and comments, I will read one of the four poems on my YouTube channel, and I will mention one lucky voter durin...