Grandmother's Breakfast

She pulls a juicy sun from a mesh bag on the counter,
rolls it between her palms, carves it into equal hemispheres.
Planting one, its ruby carpels glowing like a rose window
in January's glim dawn, she carries it to our table
where her bowl of Golden Grahams already waits.

She settles heavily into the spindle-back chair, adjusts
her skirt and stockings, picks up a paring knife and
slides its slender blade around the circumference
to separate fruit from rind, then cuts either side of
tracery membranes to release the supple panes.

As she scoops acidic wedges, savoring cold pulp,
she prays for her baby brother who retired to Florida
two decades ago. They haven't seen each other since.
She phones him each week on Sunday afternoon,
and he sends her these cartons of fresh-picked citrus.

The empty peel is a limp asterisk she folds halfwise,
squeezing the last drops of juice spoonful by spoonful.
Only then does she enjoy the sugared squares bobbing
in milk-sweet to follow sour-while she reads her Bible
and sips scalding amens of coffee, benedictions on the day.


Amy Nemecek lives in northern Michigan with her husband, son, and two cats. Her work has appeared in The Windhover, Mothers Always Write, Topology, The 3288 Review, Snapdragon, and Indiana Voice Journal. When Amy isn't working with words she enjoys long walks along country roads. Follow her on Twitter @Beloved_Delight.