Saône Citadel

Citrus

A bamouli1 must be consumed slowly, its thick skin peeled with a knife, each section membrane-pierced.

I envy the exotic fruits here, the ritual required to get at sour pulp. Without the measured care of carving, it becomes something else, a huge grapefruit.

I have no patience even with oranges forgetting to wash them, plunging my nails under their skin, quick stripping to white veins and sweet juice.

It is the writing of a morning, what I peel methodically, what I forget to chew as I look outside the window digesting what I try to see.

Bamouli is a transliteration and translation of the Syrian Arabic for the fruit we call a pomelo.