Appetite
Caress the peel, claw it
just enough to puncture —
just enough to mist the air
tangerine, to ache the tongue,
to tease the fingers
as if this peel weren’t infinite
layers; as if this peel were
simple as a bathrobe.
We pretend —
but pith hides
beneath fingernails
brought to midnight lips
even after soap, cold water.