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Lemons

Tamar Yoseloff

 

Leaves in shadow
lit, sun pooled, denied;
new leaves

purpling to clasp
their flower, flower
bulging to fruit,

sour promise –
pulp smutting
a frosted glass,

a terrace, acid
on my tongue;
the rasp of wasps.

A storm clots
on the horizon, ants march
the parched footpath,

warriors, workers;
rust of old iron,
of blood.

A cloud muscles
small drops of rain,
cold drop

of lemons, puckered
suns (more like moons), fizzing
against the stone wall,

the woodpile
rich with ants,
heavy air.

We promise ourselves
a memory of sun,
buy the postcard.

The lemons are having none
of it. They bask in their gloom,
refuse

to be sweet,
leave the residue
of their sticky kiss.

 

Acknowledgements:

This poem is from Tamar's sixth collection of Poetry 'The City with Horns' published by Salt. Tamar is a regular tutor at the Almassera Vella. Her website is at: http://www.tamaryoseloff.com/

 

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