Like A Mother Peeling Oranges
by Riley Morsman
Abandonment pries open
balled fists, but mine are still
clenched. So, again, God’s thumb
digs into my flesh with unsettling
ease—like a mother peeling oranges.
Fingernail slicing first before
gouging. Unsightly bruises once
housed by skin, stripped clean.
Inner crescents none the better:
jagged and shrunken and soft. Must you
kill or must I die? Both begin when the
Lord starts peeling, disposing
mangled casing until I stand
naked like never before.
Old body finally gone. Am I
praying or begging? Am I singing?
Quenched bones only come after the
relinquishing. What’s left of me but
stinging pulp under his nails, acidic juice
trickling through the holes in his hands?
Unform me anyways, I pray.
Vindicate, I beg. I’ll crown my brow with
womb again if that is what it takes.
Exterior gone. Interior held under, pulled up.
Your perfect wrath is what I needed; your
zeal for mercy, what I was hungering to find.
Riley Morsman’s poetry and nonfiction work has been published in Fathom Magazine, Coffee + Crumbs, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Her current writing projects include a poetry collection about the prairie and a hybrid memoir about matrilineage and mental health. You can find her on Instagram and Substack at @rileybethmo.
