Peels

When my mother made apple pie,
my sister and I sat at the table
and ate the long, tart peels.
She did the task with a skill
and privacy she often had.

We talked, no doubt,
saying things children say,
but I think of us as silent,
watching her wield the paring knife
and chunk the apple to its core,
listening to the shearing sound,
eating the red strips like candy.

When she peeled potatoes, too,
we would sit at the table, hungry
for a raw, pale chunk, salted,
for anything, everything, she gave.