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This scene of Pomelo destruction reminds me of the lovely poem Liddy’s Orange, it is, to me, a perfect description of childhood.

Liddy’s Orange by  Sharon Olds


The rind lies on the table where Liddy has left it

torn into pieces the size of petals and

curved like petals, rayed out like a

full-blown rose, one touch will make it come apart.

The lining of the rind is wet and chalky as

Devonshire cream, rich as the glaucous

lining of a boiled egg, all that protein

cupped in the rich shell. And the navel,

torn out carefully,

lies there like a fat gold

bouquet, the scar of the stem, picked out

with her nails, and still attached to the white

thorn of the central integument,

lies on the careful heap, a tool laid

down at the end of a ceremony.

All here speaks of ceremony,

the sheen of acrid juice, which is all that is

left of the flesh, the pieces lying in

profound order like natural order,

as if this simply happened, the way her

life at 13 looks like something that’s just

happening, unless you see her

standing over it, delicately clawing it open.






One Comment

  1. Beautiful Jas!

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