Suzanne Conway


You slow-bowled an orange across the room,
I stopped it with my foot. You watched as I peeled,
separating the half-suns, pinching away the pith.
You came for the crescent between my teeth; your bite
sprayed juice across our faces. You licked stickiness
from nose, eyelids, chin, holding my wrists as I resisted.

All so long ago. Now your moon waxes and wanes
at different times from mine. When you sleep, I rise.
Always how it was, never quite in time.
But, whenever the sweetness and freshness of an orange
finds me unexpectedly, I freeze and try not to blink
as you cross the room, take my hand, and kneel.

Suzanne Conway’s poems have appeared in The Poetry Review, The North, The Rialto, The
Moth, Ambit, Newspaper Taxis: Poetry after the Beatles (Seren), The Result Is What You See
Today: Poems about Running (Smith|Doorstop), and elsewhere. She is working towards a Ph.D and her first collection.