The orange you will believe in, and her love.
Your mother’s fingers peel its shimmer skin,
spritzing citrus cross your nose, and in
your eye, so that you could not see– above

and then upon you–a single stinging tear
obscures what you will never now believe:
the whole upended ocean in a heave
drowning, drowning all you know. What you called here

is smashed to silt; what you called her
the gushing salt erased, but for that final taste,
that segment of sweet orange she passed—
her parting gift: distraction and the blur.

All we love becomes debris.
You. Me. Why fight the battering?
We’re not made of matter, but of mattering,
Love answers, turns and tends catastrophe.