Grapefruit
by Lisa Prince

I have a little serrated spoon
hidden away in my utensil drawer

you have to pick a ripe one

I remember in high school
home economics classes
where they taught us to press
our thumbs into the ends
of fruit to test for ripeness

every boy I’ve dated
has wanted to squeeze my breasts

sometimes when I shower
I touch them myself
trying to understand
their globular form

for breakfast
mine would be nice

you cut them in half
with a serrated knife - not
the kind with a straight edge
so that you don’t bruise
them - ironically
biting leaves marks

there was a boy who
so taken aback the morning after
when he saw the marks he’d left
he couldn’t believe they’d come
from his mouth

I wanted to ask for more

sometimes I’ll have
both halves of the grapefruit
even though home economics
would say half per person
neatly cut along each segment
so that each piece comes
out by itself

my mother had a mamogram
when she was fifty-five

they found a lump the size
of a grape - there’s a fruit
I don’t like even if radiation
and raisin are very alike

she only has one breast now

I see her touching herself
sometimes when she thinks
that she’s alone or when
she passes the hall mirror

with only one breast she walks
lopsided - my brother gave her
an orange for her birthday

for the other side, he said

so I eat both halves
with that small serrated spoon

maybe I’ll buy one
for my mother

Biography

Lisa Prince is a 38 year old writer in Southern Ontario where she lives with her daughter and three cats. She's had her work published in Saucyvox, Poems Niederngasse, mikeduron.com, as well as placed in NPAC and been chosen to represent for the IBPC.

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