Is it possible to measure the half-life
of longing? Years later, the pregnancy long gone,
I kept dreaming of a daughter—eyes locked,
hands cupping her soft dimpled cheeks.
*
For the few weeks I held her, I was insatiable
for citrus. Elliot brought me oranges
I peeled from bed, pushing into the soft notch,
midpoint of their rounded bodies.
*
My mother taught me separation. To split
membrane from flesh. In front of the T.V.
she placed pockmarked peels in the sagging womb
of her shirt, fed me segments one by one.
*
A still life: the Dutch artist paints a blowfly
on the surface of the fruit. It's fine black legs
shadowing the pristine, waxy skin—sensing
death before any human eyes could see it.
*
How quickly my body caved
to craving. How quickly it surrendered
again. Now I know, a navel
is a wound, a scar still tender to the touch.

—Nina C. Peláez

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