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
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