by angela narciso torres
Cutting through the equator of a grapefruit, my blade sinks into pink pulp.
A day like any other—warm gusts when I let the dog out.
Thirteenth of September. Mother’s birthday. Gone four moons.
I slip into her kaftan of orchids and zebra stripes, brew manzanilla tea.
I walk in a cloud of her Spanish cologne. Notes of bitter orange
recall the day she birthed my brother. We are born, we die. In between—
the slicing and sharing of fruit. Scent of someone’s hair. The sowing of seeds,
the climbing of many steps. A newborn mewling in your bare arms.