Citrus Paradisi: For Anna

I came to grapefruits late in life.
Their juiced heft in the hand,
 
the exact weight and girth
of a small head one has waited
 
a long time to see. This morning
I slice one in half for us
 
even as I hear you twist in your sheets,
your cheek pillow-printed no doubt,
 
my son who came to me
late in life. My incisions are surgical,
 
practiced. There it is, the placental
pink inside, the perfect, evenly
 
spoked wheel I turn onto
a porcelain plate. Sugar for you,
 
salt for me. And why is it grapefruits
are always compared to tumors?—
 
it was swollen the size of a grapefruit,
right there on her fallopian tubes,
 
as though the body were a reluctant
vine, a branch in need of pluck.
 
You are in the doorway, shirt
carefully misbuttoned, five years
 
burgeoning into six. I know
what you will say. It is what you say
 
first every morning. My love
for you is halved on the table,
 
granulated bitter and sweet. You know
I know what you will say. But still
 
we wait in the momentary quiet
for the hungry words to come.
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