Mother

I don’t remember if I ever saw my mother eat an orange

pulling apart the sweet dripping sections with her long fingers 
flicking aside the white membrane 
biting the flesh with perfect sparkling teeth

I do remember the delicate way she held a lobster roll 

between two fingers  
her back straight   
the way she dabbed at her red shaded lips
with the corner of her napkin 
 

I remember how she ate stuffed quahogs at Bobby Byrne’s   

one hand in her lap 
fork held at a precise angle  
the way she talked to the waiter  
showing her broad smile
but never with food in her mouth

and I remember how she ate oysters at Wimpy’s in Osterville    

laughing as they slid down her throat  
salty

oh she would say  
delicious  
believe me
if God eats  
He eats oysters

I don’t remember if I ever saw my mother eat an orange   

but I do remember the blue leather bar stool
where she sat in the afternoons  
and late into the evening  
at Cotuit Highground    

and I do remember exactly how much orange juice

the bartender mixed with her vodka