The knife slips in, its curved
edge sawing along the rind,
parting flesh from skin
and membrane, dismantling
the fruit. This is the orderly
beginning of destruction.
And then the spoon, the mouth
finish the work begun
by the knife, leaving the shell
and fabric that held segment
and juice in something resembling
organization, now an outline
governing air.


Eating the grapefruit, ruby
red, rich in juice, I think
of my mother and father,
the daily morning ritual
every time I visit. My father
halves the fruit off center
to give me the larger portion,
always the bottom, heavier
in juice. My mother sprinkles
the powdered sugar evenly,
then hands us the narrow,
pointed spoons her mother
gave her, the spoon I now
lift to my mouth.