Did your Mother ever tell you,
when the world had just begun,
that before Eve took the thing apart,
all the fruit were one.

If you search with care and patience
the whelps of Eden's loot,
you just might catch a hint,
of the history of fruit.

Apples are full moons beneath their skins
self-contained, they leave no clue,
that each conceals a star,
a secret, not for you.

Lemons are wounded to their centers,
each inner curve a cringe,
every slice an aching organ
primed to have revenge.

Only Oranges, of all Eve's progeny,
kept the wisdom she confided,
that what mattered most was not the thing itself,
but how it was divided.

Their semicircles ache for eating,
each sweeter than the last,
so deep in you they can relive,
the glory of their past.