Peeling Oranges


I am waiting in line at the A&P
with my sack of Neptune oranges
and I think of my brother at work
whittling away the topsoil with his
drenched, rusted, mechanical claws,
his nose hairs binding like wet ivy.

In 1985 he was 16 in Ft. Thomas
driving a 1969 blue Chevy Malibu
big block with 5-star aluminum mags
and he'd come home with a crab
in his ass because he'd lost a drag race.
I need some more power, he'd say.

Too many years passed before
I realized that my brother had to
work at smoothing the stutters out
of his engine, had to raise the idle
from time to time to let out exhausts
that eat away the gut like warm beer.

I understand those hot evenings alone
on the tiny porch, sitting on the ledge,
emptying the yo-yo from my small hand,
letting it fall into the garden encumbered
by dandelions and trash, then tugging up.
My brother would drive home with sacks

of oranges, saying they helped his muscles,
would walk up to the porch with a shine
in his eyes, and flick away his cigarette.
Somehow I think he was never my brother
as much as he was when we'd sit together
on the stoop till midnight, peeling away

orange rinds with his Michelangelo fingers,
talking of bolting this damn city with nothing
but a pocket full of money and his Malibu.
Then he'd say, What makes you happy, and
all I could say was hanging out, but now in line
I recall thinking when my brother peels oranges.


© copyright 2008 - Jay Martin