an orange from my mother

a poem from a daughter to her first supporter

i always forget about oranges
                                                   but
when i’ve gone an entire day
without a bite of food
and my mother arrives
with an orange
resting on a small plate
cut into eight perfect pieces
                                                 because the large plates are wrong
                                       and it must be cut this way
the orange is not fruit
but a balm
it is nourishment
it tastes like candy
guiltless sweetness
                                 though when i decide
for the first time
to cut myself an orange
                                         it’s uneven
wonky in my hands
                                  and the taste falls flat
maybe i don’t love oranges
after all
but rather the idea
that when i forget
                               on purpose
to tend to myself
an orange will appear
delivered with a mother’s love
a quiet promise of care
to fill the void i cannot