Off-Hand

The skin of the orange is stubborn.

It comes away in ragged,

bitter white bits that get under my nails.

My right hand does the heavy lifting,

the prying, the tearing.

But the left—

it just cradles the weight.

It fumbles the curve, uncertain

and shy.

I see the thin, white line

of the scar where the paring knife

once slipped in the dark.

A map of old mistakes

held out like an offering

while the juice runs down my wrist

and into the drain.