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LEMONS


I wash dishes, smell lemon
faintly from the sink, think
of you yesterday, how the same
pale scent hovered as we talked.
Glinting glasses, plates, stack

the counter. This morning I picked an armful
of lemons from the backyard tree.
I rinsed the dust away, piled them
in glass bowls beneath my kitchen window.
They look like broken stars against

the cracked blue sky. Once
I made a lemon meringue pie.
I remember the crumbly crust,
buttery filling and cloudy crown.
Broiled in the oven, sugared brown hills.

I wonder how you like the mix
of sweet and sour, where you hold them
on your tongue. I'm looking
for a lemon, not perfection, one
a little banged up. In my hand

the fruit is heavy. As I peel,
the rind is steady as it unfurls, down
down to the fruitful disorder of you.



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