Yüksel taught us the right way
to eat the Turkish portakal.
You do it slowly, talking with friends,
attentive to the task.
I saw that preparation
can be an aspect of taste,
as time may often be of place,
and I memorized the rule:
Slice off the stem,
work your knife in carefully
under the pebbled skin.
Score it in six vertical lines.
An orange can last all evening
with a glass of sweetened tea,
talk melding with the fruit,
the stacked elliptical peel.
You climb the honey-scented hills
of Izmir or Mersin,
build a small white fortress
from the wrinkled seeds.
From Back Where We Belong (Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press 2012).
This poem first appeared in the Journal of NJ Poets.
Used here with the author's permission.
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