At eight, I learned a fondness for lemons.
Cut off the tops,
Insert a ribboned stick of candy,
Use it as a straw.
Sweet mingled with the sour.
At fourteen, I walked the decks of a ship
In moonlight with a man who
Smelled of cigarettes, who
Tasted of scotch and whiskey.
At twenty, I stood robed in black,
Cap in one hand, flowers in another.
We stood at the top of the mesa,
Yelling into the canyon that echoed
All our joy.
Now, at twenty-two,
I sleep naked in these hot summer nights.
I rearrange the pillows in my sleep,
And stir in the muted grey overtones of morning
As you run your hand down the curve of my spine.
At twenty-two, I have forgotten the rules
Of cadence and line, of stanza and form.
You chide me, say I move and yawn, stretch like a cat
Without a care in the world.
I reach for the book that was kicked to the floor.
I want to read poems to you, want to feel your fingers in my hair
And I turn my face, craving the sweetness of your kiss, but to find
You have vanished, leaving only the traces of a memory behind,
As vague as the fragrant blossoms of a lemon tree.
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