She sits, peeling the pith of her tangerine,
Letting it cascade onto the table before sweeping
In an orderly manner,
She creates neat piles of creeping veins, roots of a fruit,
Whitewashed, sticky fingered,
The ball, an orange sun,
Left behind in the palm of her hand.
Gestures characteristic yet distantly performed
She is observed but left, silently,
To her own devices.
Nothing of the skin must remain before the harvest
Can be ingested, pip sized morsel at a time
– a daily ritual,
Surprisingly time-consuming but understandably, necessary.
By others, she may be misunderstood,
But he comprehends the overpowering
To live in one moment,
For as long as it is possible.
He watches her place, in agonising slow
The final mouthful
Long fingers left to linger on the tongue before
It is gone
And she is done
With this act of consumption that is also
Of what, he does not know
And probably never will.
Image: Congerdesign via Pixaby