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.