We sat on your clean white sheet of a bed
and talked about oranges and the best way to peel them.
I learned a lot from watching your hands on the fruit,
but hardly any of it was the kind of thing you write home about,
not at twenty, or ever, really.
Later, we zipped and buttoned ourselves to the cemetery
by the river and we talked about life and the best way to reveal it.
I listened, but by then, I had forgotten how to be both cold and knowing.
I just kept my eyes on yours, and my hands in my pockets, unpeeled.
Beverly Cartwright is a retired health care professional, who resides in Virginia. She has always had a love for writing, especially fiction and poetry. Currently, she is working on her first collection of poetry as well as a memoir. Her work is published in Oddball Magazine and Raven’s Perch.
