As a Globed Fruit
This time, I want it to be simple: say you are
a fresh, cool lemon. Your rind is dotted with wet.
Say I have a tongue and lick away the wetness,
have hands and excavate the seeds.
I pull you out of yourself. I raise newness.
Everything tastes yellow and the sea-line is a line
down my throat. The lemon is a line across
the sky and that too is what you are: everything
mistaken for something else, the citrus getting larger, blooming.
Are you blooming? Are you in bloom? Tell me how you feel.
You don’t have to be a lemon if you don’t want to.
The rind could slip from my hand, if you asked for it.
I only want to speak to you. I’ve known lemons before:
tendrils of fruit clutching to the white, hand unhooked,
every cold, flowered thing giving way to water. Things change
when I speak and fruits flower, open slowly, without knowing it.
Try this: the dig of your finger under stem, stopping
crooked between flesh and peel. So what if when I dream
I dream citrus? I can taste even the farthest slick of air,
unlace semblance from skin. I can feed in pieces.
When I call out your name, it is your name
before it is anything else.
Later, I can ask you about the rest.
1Title is taken from Archibald MacLeish’s “Ars Poetica."