I am nine, in the yard
behind our old, blue sided house.
Grandma sits next to me on the bench,
the grease of her tight, black curls glimmering
in the noon sun. I stare down at my
sun-burnt thighs, poking out from purple shorts
then at the scattered, leaf piles around
the picnic table, the same color as the orange she
peels with her black, wrinkled hands that, moments ago,
roughly rubbed sunscreen onto my pale shoulders.
Pressing and screwing her thumbs into
the rubbery skin; digging red, painted
nails under, she carves a layer away.
The juices spurt and bubble
around her knuckles. She allows each
chunk of peel to drop in the grass
below the table, to be gnawed at by insects;
the way caterpillars chew holes in leaves.
She extends a shiny, dark arm and hands me
a slice, still covered in white, waxy film.
I look up, pull it from her long fingers
and shove it into my mouth.

-- Savonna Johnson