At the breakfast table
I watch how you eat the orange;
every detail from
the twirl you give its body
on the knife-edge,
carefully undoing a slice;
the nip
you make in the skin,
opening the circle and straightening it,
readying it to be eaten;
the drops of juice
that bubble on your lips.

At the breakfast table
as I watch how you eat the orange
I think
and how I wish my eyes could follow
the trail of Vitamin C
splashing down
your gullet;
follow round your body,
in blood, into cell, into organ;
wish I could see
the inner workings, the mechanics,
how the rest of us err,

all the while sure
there is a secret and, akin
to droplets you dribble
on your chin,
maybe there are droplets of hope
for the revelation
of the two things I wonder most
at the breakfast table
when I watch how you eat the orange:
one, why God made fruit
by the blueprint of the sun,
and two, how your face
shines so bright
I can hardly look directly into it.