Oranges

They say the pandemic will end

come spring, but for today I still mask,

still distance, still order my groceries

on the Walmart app. Parked in PICK UP,

mouth protected from the late-summer wind,

I wave to a tall, twenty-something boy

carting a pile of bright blue crates

toward my car. As directed, I step back

six feet & wait while he packs purchases

into my trunk: apples & Cheeze-its

& ketchup & bread, Gatorade & chile &

too many frozen dinners to count,

& I can’t help but notice the careless way

he brushes the oranges with bony fingers,

tips sliding soft on the skin.

& a certain, specific pandemic-panic builds—

not unfamiliar—not dissimilar from

this ghost at my back, some muddy marrow,

the contamination of a different plague

in my blood. & I can’t help

but wonder if he washed his hands,

wonder where they’ve been before,

wonder why he’s not wearing gloves,

at least. Uncomfortable, probably.

Uncomfortably, I thank him. Drive home.

Haul bread & Gatorade & oranges

into my apartment. Place fruit in the sink & begin

the art of scrubbing. Meticulously.

Maliciously. Pat dry the surface & place

each sphere in a pretty wooden bowl

once owned by my mother,

more decoration than food. Here,

I can admire the way light reflects

off bumpy, imperfect skin. I can be proud

of how I’ve learned to protect myself.

Here, I can almost forget how much

I wish I would have been just as vigilant

with him.