The fruit of my father’s first home,
is a pulpy heart of citrus,
a full moon, with beads of juice
that drip down my chin.
Bring to the table,
that is never wiped clean,
because there is no time
when my father, standing at the island
made of Formica,
endlessly sculpts and carves
the rind from a jewel.
Though it is the Sichuan peppercorn
that flares in the limelight and numbs the bellies
of our ancestors,
it was the crisp of the dewdrops
bursting in my mouth,
the tart of the pomelo,
that I instead loved best.
if you’ve ever smelled the skin
of the fruit –
coiled, at this point,
spongey and cushioned,
in your hands,
a pastiche of the fancy potpourris
and lavender oils sold at the corner store.
Except this citrus,
its shell a cradle for ruby navel,
is both: perfume and delicacy,
bitter pith and candied juice,
memories of my father and I,
in the kitchen on a still evening,
and he unwraps the gemstone
and I sit and wait as patiently as I can.
By Molly Zhu
Molly is a new poet and writer. For her desk job, she is a corporate attorney in NYC. In her free time, she enjoys eating and thinking about words. Find her on Instagram @Mlz316