Wendy Klein

  Poetry

© Wendy Klein CCXX

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.