You peel me in the morning,
A salty fruit of our invention,
You bisect me with your grubby fingers,
Smelling of cheap, musty soap and bootblack.
I’m the half-dressed one in Kelly green Jockey shorts and a white shirt,
On the edge of the bed, picking out my tie.
And you, in grey wool dress pants and a blue shirt,
The shirt that I embroidered “morning head” on the cuff,
Straightening your tie while looking at me,
I am sprouting sweet and wet and salt and hard,
Under your gaze.
We are getting ready to go to shule on a Saturday morning,
You see me hesitate over the black tie with the blue chickens,
My hand pink and clean,
Nails trimmed short,
My thumb ring gleaming and age spots a tawny brown,
I touch the black silks lightly,
Choosing my tie.
Your fingers move forward,
Reaching for my fly,
Pulling knit to one side like a curtain,
I am open and waiting,
Ties dropped to the floor and forgotten,
Thighs spread like jam on toast,
Sticky and you find your way in,
I am the salty fruit you peel open,
Your fingers, the sweetest knife.