after Mario Benedetti                  I pick two from the low-lyingcrisper drawers of my fridge.                 Day mists through the window                 like citrus drizzle, as if the sunwere also thumbed through,                 peeled. It’s almost November again—                 clementine season.But honey lingers                 on morning light,                 and leaves refuse the wardrobechange, dangerous                 uncertainty of weather.                 I sit on the couch and openBenedetti’s poem, “Gajos.”                 It helps to think of the heart                 as a clementine. Of its shapeas torn into wedges.                 Only one remaining                 faithful to the bodythat ripens. He says                 of the heart that while all                 the other gajos suffer,flee, there is one                 that endures, stays                 for the panic. The balming.The recovery while ribs                 slacken their grip. I send the poem                 to my father back homein Puerto Rico, as I’ve grown                 accustomed to sharing my feelings                 with him through strangers’words. He responds                 that the poem is beautiful.                 And the three-dotted snakeof his typing reappears.                 ¿Tú tienes ese gajo aún?                 I feel for the rinds perchedon the couch beside me.                 He knows this question                 probes a fieldlong fallow. I leave                 the message seen                 and unanswered—place another sliver                 in my mouth.