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What a Lemon Teaches
Lemons. I like them. Light, and green, Gardener's green, golfball shapes. In summer, some days, I sip them Tenderly through, take their insides Into my idle, my ice-numb mouth, Their meat amusing, making my face Fall to the floor, or farther still, My sugar saved, for sucking, or for horses.
Lemons. I lick them, like the bitter Biting of their borders, whose breath suggests A jumping, aging juxtapositions, folded Fists, fire's phlegm as it lingers.
Limón. Mamá, ¡qué amarga la limonada! Another name names me. My mother's mother, mamá, speaks Her special sounds, secret in my ear: I hear bees, ease my way Toward the woman, and wait for more. I move my mouth, mimicking hers: How heavy, how full It feels, and afraid: of failing, of not Having knelt enough, not like her legs.
Lemons. I live them, el limón, The meat, my mother's mother's scream: The sour skin--her sweat--for what One winter wildly would be A baby. A boy. Alberto. Albertito. You take your time tonight, she says. Be sad. Suffer. Shake in your bed.
Be brave in biting lemons. Love to take a long, a long time. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow--remember This moment, me; remember how I hold your hand, and Hurt you, you So young: allá, the yellow lemons, Like them less. Love me. Make me the marrow in your bones.
I bite. It's bitter. I break a skin Of celebration, suck the seeds, and spit.
The Bloomsbury Review. Vol. 8, No. 4, July/August, 1988.
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