He’s picked his cuticle raw and red, and still
he pops his thumb into the tender button
of the bright orange orange until its center gives.
I did not die nine years ago, so Jesus lauds the day.
It relents and slits a haze of oil.
He peels the rind in one unending round.
The doors and windows have been locked
in fear, and still the vapor fills the room.
He’s particular about the fibrous pith,
the bitter stringed albedo. He unfolds
each fleshly vesicle. He breaks apart
the segments, and with a stinging thumb
he says to take and eat. He’s pulled the skin
off in one piece, a curl of spiraling thoughts.
He hangs it from my ear, he crowns
it on my head, he anoints it to my nose.
He sucks his bloody thumb.
Breathe in, he says, and smiles at me.
Doesn’t it just smell so good?
Doesn’t it sting so sweet?
by Jennifer Frayer-Griggs
Jennifer Frayer-Griggs is a graduate of McNeese State University’s Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program, where she had the honor of working with Iowa Poetry Prize winner, John Wood, and Pulitzer Prize finalist, Morri Creech. In addition to writing poetry and nonfiction essays, she is a progressive pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). She enjoys experiencing the incarnation of nature with her husband, Dan, and two sons, Jonah and Levi, in Pittsburgh, PA.
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