By Gianna Hayes

The outline of an 

orange.

Twist into any shape

after removing

from that golden core.

That zest which reminds

me of the sweetness,

stains my fingernails,

scent everlasting,

a peel pretending;

the memory’s silhouette of

all the people 

with whom I’ve shared 

a slice. 

And of course, they

were the treat 

all along.