Poetry By
Jacqui Pack
Published on: 9/25/2013
Grapefruit
Late autumn in Lavender Hill and I perched in her kitchen, a Frigidaire to my back. Florrie Mac rolled the fruit with her back to the Belling. Pigeons flirted on rooftops, and the distance between us shrank from fifty-nine years to a square of formica. When she felt the fruit yield she dug deep, nails piercing its dimples, discarding its skin exposing a pithy white petticoat fleece. Down her thumbs delved, to its core, and then spread, dividing her cache and transferring a quarter from her hand to mine. The incision. Her nails, oval-smooth and half-mooned slicing through the first piece. The papery membrane folding back to reveal its pale glossy lined flesh. Her thumbs, underneath, easing out to the edges 'til a crescent of fruit is unloosed, and falls, whole. On our way into London this summer We passed Lavender Hill on the train. In a breath I returned. Florrie's citrus-sweet tang squeezing my throat and pressing her memory onto my tongue.
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