A Lemon In Moscow

A stark winter,
twenty-five below,
my blue down jacket
an eye-blazing target
against the sodden snow.
High drifts lined
the grim, brutal brown 
of rotting buildings.
Food: spoiled potatoes,
cabbages, onions.
No fruits, except those
boiled, sweetened,
congealed in varenye.

I trudged throughout,
caught trams, trolleys, 
the gleaming metro.
My Texas boots wet, 
my head, warmer 
than the rest of me, concealed
in a rabbit ushanka.

And there, in a friend’s
tiny apartment: color,
shade, texture,
heat of hands, embraces, 
laughter, conversation, 
vodka.

A lemon, sliced thin, rare.
One lemon, to be divided
among four people. A lean
lemon, golden, not to be 
squeezed, dipped or hidden, 
but to be speared with a fork,
eaten just so.

A tart, tongue-burst
salivary gland explosion.
Swished, swallowed,
eyes streamed.



I walked away,
carried light into
the gray.
All these years later,
I long for lemons,
sliced thin,
speared,
teetering on my
tongue, swallowed,
illuminating me
within.