It started like this: during my first visit
the doctor ordered a test and told me there’s not enough
iron in my blood. It’s hereditary, mom said
before packing her supplement in my suitcase —
she’ll buy another one when there’s money.
It started with: lack. Now, every morning I juice
oranges on my desk, cutting board propped
between French books because she said
vitamin C helps with absorption. Someday, I want to
give her the most expensive of oranges, peeled,
no pith. I want to say pith when she’s crying, her laugh
a wet chuckle I can always replay.