The Orange Came First

Ruth Knafo Setton

The orange came first-
was there ever a doubt?
Not to us, who worked
the pardess. 4 a.m., riding
to the grove on the tender—
open-backed, tented car,
huddled as we watched
the kibbutz stream past,
a river of bodies emerging
from houses.

In our hooded raincoats,
armed with clippers,
we advanced: dusky army.
Oranges gleamed in the black trees.
I reached and plucked, one after another,
filling my canvas bag, hearing the rain
but lost in the light: fire glinting
through leaves. A stubborn one.
I tore the white-fleshed branch, tendrils
of skin, until she dropped into my palm:

diamond-wet nubs rolling
across my heartline.
I carved her open with my clippers,
broke her skin into four.
Someone yelled, The sun is rising!
Hooded shadows moved to the clearing.
I stood there, wreathed
by orange blossoms,
juice licking down chin and throat,
arms, belly, thighs,
clinging.

Ruth Knafo Setton is the writer-in-residence of the Berman Center for Jewish Studies at Lehigh University. She is the author of the novel The Road to Fez.

© 2006 by Zeek Magazine and the author. This article may not be distributed for commercial purposes without the express written permission of Zeek Magazine (). Reprints and other distributions must contain this copyright notice.

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