this infection

By unpeeling these blossoms, I find you
in the folds of the rind, satsuma sweet
and chilling the air. I don't know when I
last saw you like this, balancing an orange
in one large hand. You said you liked the way
the pieces sectioned neatly in your palm.
I said that when I try, it comes apart
all wrong. There is a trick to it, you see,
a certain way of pressing your nail in
the divide between the flesh and the peel
that parts it precicisely each time,
but it doesn't work when I try. I am
left with a mess that stings the open flesh
where my skin is cracked from hard weather and
stress. You leave your peelings behind, and I,
if I tried, could piece them together and
reform that orange sphere. But when I look at
the ones that I left behind, I want to
cry. I have left nothing salvageable.
No planet can be made from such a mess.
I leave mine behind, but I scoop up your
rinds. I will keep them in my desk with the
rest, as a ward against the day you left.