I can't help myself,
I think of you whenever
I use my thumb to break
a clementine's stubborn skin.
Once my nail passes through the stumbly surface,
it softens, unravels between my fingers,
with some coaching, coaxing, slight encroaching.
***
When we lounge around
our L-shaped, cherry colored couch
I can't just peel one for myself:
my one becomes two,
I always give the first to you.
***
Six months in
we spent a weekend by the beach.
You passed me a clementine,
and handed me those eyes.
My aunt oversaw and looked around
to twenty years of love behind her.
She predicted a demise and she instructed:
“Don't do that!
You have train him early!”
You have train him early!”
Train him? Maim him? Shame him?
For love's sake, why not help?
Still, I wonder
...without my thumb...
could he survive?
***
Am I my mom? Ten years and three kids later
will I laugh and say "I have four, if you count
my husband, which you should"?
Looking over my shoulder, will I see
twenty-year-old-me and make her take my blame?
"I never should have peeled that second clementine:
the fault is mine."
The children. What about the children?
What will you do when little Moishy
asks you to peel his clementine?
Will you say "Go ask Mommy" every time?
We won't be my parents.
I need to know you know
how to do it on your own.
I'm not your mother, maid or martyr.
***
I want to gift you, kiss you with this peeled clementine,
but sour-sweet as the juice that dribbles, stains my skin,
when my thumbnail probes too deep,
new ideas swirl and creep:
I'll to do this for you, but what'll you do for me?
***
A joke. This is marriage?
Disparaging remarks that mar our bond?
D-I-Y and just leave me alone?
I thought we got together to avoid
the need to face this void all on our own.
