in memory of Shiva Haghighi

The orange thread was a good match
so I found my only needle and stitched
the skin of the half-eaten fruit back together.

It approximates its old self, and I’m the only one
who knows how lightweight it would be
if picked up. How air, time, and finger traces

might rot what’s left inside this strange
warm November—our birth month,
hers and mine. Or else the fruit will simply

wither until the guts are all pith,
all protective fiber, no flavor left to want.
Should I return it to the centerpiece bowl

or carry this surgery always? The slices
I stomached were too tart, too sweet, too perfect
a glimpse of the sunlight we stood to lose.

Kathleen Jones is a writer of poetry, fiction, and technical documentation. She lives in Wilmington, North Carolina and has an MFA in poetry from UNC Wilmington. Her work is forthcoming from the The Best Small Fictions 2018 anthology and North Carolina Literary Review, and can be found in Rust + Moth, Paper Darts, Grist Online, and more.