Poem of the Day: Jennifer Jackson Berry

by | Mar 27, 2019 | Poem of the Day Series


Seven clementines line the counter.
I put the only three still firm
in my lunch bag. The segments
of the four remaining had pulled back
from the browning rind like
the brain is set back from the skull,
where blood collects post-trauma.
I cup the softened orbs.
The carpels move under that delicate, rugged covering.
& later when I look up
all kinds of oranges,
I find rind originates by a thickening
of a single ovary wall.
The fruit of any citrus tree: hesperidium, modified berries,
with seeds & flesh soft, self-fertile.
& at noon I press my thumbnail near the stem, 3x piercing
then stripping to the pith.
I will find that heady scent still
with me hours later when I touch my face.
& when I get home
the sweet fruit are buried in the trash.  


—poem from Jennifer Jackson Berry’s poetry collection, The Feeder, here


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