Start with the pockmarked rind, plunging fingers
into unfiltered sunlight. Feel the juices
sink into the well-worn spirals of your skin,
staining them a musty orange. Believe
that it is Jupiter you are tearing open,
rather than a thing needed for survival.
Next, peel away the sticky, sallow threads
woven between each segment of fruit. Spend
hours doing this; separating white beads
from the poppy-petal core. When you can taste
the sweet tang of bleeding yellow skies
in a pile beside you, take the orb into your palms
and split the whole of it. Imagine
that it is your brother’s face, and that
you can take the agony from his throat
the same way you pull a thick white rope
from the fruit’s heart. Afterward, split each piece
from the whole like slices of the sun.
Lay them out on the table in a single, imperfect row;
look at how easily Jupiter is returned to dust.
Elsa Kim
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