The Peel (Poem)

The Peel

A drizzle of honey left stuck to the counter.

The grease from eggs and bacon solidified in the Cast Iron.

A cold cup of coffee sitting abandoned by the stove.

My great grandmother peeling an apple with a knife.

She parts the waxy sheen from the soft, white insides in swirls and rounds,

Like the world spinning in her hands.

We wait expectantly at her feet as the shavings fall into the bowl. 

Having done it a million times over, cutting into the meat and separating the core.

Her hands are frail with age, shaky and tired. 

She holds life so tenderly, and I see it,

Life opening up and dropping the seeds of her majesty. 

She does not expect a thank you, and we eat every part. 

My brother, the flesh. 

I, the peel.