How to Peel a Mandarin
By Jacky Tang
April 15, 2026
April 15, 2026
Air hums like a hive of vowels
and smells of burning citrus
peels. I jam my trembling thumbs into a Mandarin—
its pith packed beneath my fingernails,
juice gathering in the creases of my hands. Mom,
citrus juice blurs my eye, stings my wounds.
After work, you sit beside me,
your voice clipped and dry. You smell like limelon,
bittersweet and lingering. I wonder if I’m disappointing you,
butchering our language with a mouth
jammed with peels
hands sticky,
fingers curled around my neck.
Mandarin has a bitter aftertaste.
I cry, and grab your hand, and my vision blurs again.
I want to ask if love is supposed to sting
like citrus—if peeling back enough layers
will rasp my throat raw with vowels
pith my veins into only sweetness
as fruit flies postmortem the mess of my words.
and smells of burning citrus
peels. I jam my trembling thumbs into a Mandarin—
its pith packed beneath my fingernails,
juice gathering in the creases of my hands. Mom,
citrus juice blurs my eye, stings my wounds.
After work, you sit beside me,
your voice clipped and dry. You smell like limelon,
bittersweet and lingering. I wonder if I’m disappointing you,
butchering our language with a mouth
jammed with peels
hands sticky,
fingers curled around my neck.
Mandarin has a bitter aftertaste.
I cry, and grab your hand, and my vision blurs again.
I want to ask if love is supposed to sting
like citrus—if peeling back enough layers
will rasp my throat raw with vowels
pith my veins into only sweetness
as fruit flies postmortem the mess of my words.
You’ve always loved the sickly sweet
Mandarins. Briefly perfect right before rot.
But this might not last.
I see the smokey Mandarins piled underneath
incense at the local temple.
The fruit flies encircle food left
for the dead. It’s too sweet to last.
Your palm on my back, you whisper
it wasn’t me. It was the weight of the day.
Mandarins. Briefly perfect right before rot.
But this might not last.
I see the smokey Mandarins piled underneath
incense at the local temple.
The fruit flies encircle food left
for the dead. It’s too sweet to last.
Your palm on my back, you whisper
it wasn’t me. It was the weight of the day.
Language is a fruit I keep peeling,
my hands becoming sticky and acidic,
juice leeching into my wounds,
my cracking lips left stinging.
I cradle the Mandarin I had neglected
and forgotten to eat,
chew through the bitter
broken peel, the green bloom of rot
forming on my tongue,
all so that we might peel Mandarins together someday.
my hands becoming sticky and acidic,
juice leeching into my wounds,
my cracking lips left stinging.
I cradle the Mandarin I had neglected
and forgotten to eat,
chew through the bitter
broken peel, the green bloom of rot
forming on my tongue,
all so that we might peel Mandarins together someday.
Jacky Tang is a high school junior from Vancouver, Canada. He is a 2026 Scholastic National Medalist in Poetry and one of sixteen Canadian FutureVerse poets. He is thrilled to attend the Adroit Summer Mentorship Program and the Kelly Writers House summer workshop later this year.