Poems by Elizabeth Coleman

Every year—
fingertips in grapefruit juice
with a dripping blade
I slice and think of you

The way you took such care
when making marmalade
Sharpening the knife
trimming the fruit of flaws
peeling each orb from its sunny skin

Rejecting the white pith
the papery membrane between sections
and slicing skin and flesh
so thinly, so thinly
with grace and focus
A labour of love, you agreed—

I wonder where you are.