Long days in Guayaquil
\nwhen there was nothing
\nand in the afternoons, nothing<\/p>\n
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>turned into more nothing\u2014 aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI<\/span>and reached for her sharpest knife. I watched her, kitchen towel on her lap, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>Tongue between her teeth: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>the white pith intact, turning it a thing. And carving steadily, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>as if the skin wasn\u2019t ready to let go aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>Nothing for me to do but watch, maybe The final cut released the heavy coil, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>popped it whole in her mouth,
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>I begged my Abuelita<\/em> for a snack,
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>until she put down her cuchara<\/em><\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>Choosing the juiciest-looking orange
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>from the basket on the floor,<\/p>\n
\nwearing one of the many dresses
\nshe drew and stitched for herself.<\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>she sliced a notch into the skin,
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>just deep enough to leave<\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>inch by inch. It was a miracle,
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>how she could transform<\/p>\n
\nan orange ribbon curled upon her lap,
\nrecomposing into a hollow sphere,<\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>what took so long to ripen inside; its body
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>rotating between her crooked fingers.<\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>teach myself, the trick to unraveling\u2014
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>unravel bitterness like gauze,
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>unravel the girl I was from the girl I could be.<\/p>\n
\nlanding useless in her lap, and
\nplunging her knife into the top,
\nshe cut out a fragrant cone of juicy flesh,<\/p>\n
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>and laid a new creation in my palm:
\naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<\/span>the opening let me suck out all the juice<\/p>\n