Wendy Klein

  Poetry

© Wendy Klein CCXVI

This near-oval object of pale yellow
its humble surface etched with blemishes,
like blisters, like bruises, pointed end scuffed,
blunt end scarred with a scab, is the apotheosis
of citrus. Carried home in your rucksack,
it will have fragranced your denim shorts,
your well-worn white tee-- drench-dried
in Cretan sun--to arrive in time for dinner.

When you produce it we are silenced into
reverence; pass it from hand-to- hand, hold it up
to our jaded nostrils, inhale its perfection,
are saddened by all the years we’ve missed
honest lemon, gulled by poor imitations,
the garish peel of supermarket imposters.

aaaaaaaaaaaaiii