NECTAR

He severs the orb into a pair a citrus burst erupts hints of sour a musty morning in March as winter sludges into spring nothing is growing yet a man I have only known three months marshals a serrated knife to nimbly loosen succulent segments his massive claw hands delicate around the golden demi sphere You don’t have to do that But I want to… as the crisp sun bathes us a translucent saffron shower luminates a juicy moment soft paws, the ones that caressed me the night before fingers stroking gently gripping a juicy halve a face so tender on the offering as I imagine my mother on the rare mornings she portioned a maternal pause between working and studying to submit this exact nourishment in a bone-white melamine bowl a sprinkle of sugar