The lemons on the counter
enshrouded in a dingy grocery bag
radiate through dark surroundings
to light the kitchen
as a replacement for the bulb that burnt out after you left.
I grab them with both hands
Their yellow
pock marked skins firm beneath my grip.
Steadfast and whole
Each predictable,
tiny yellow triangles form a circle
dotted by seeds
protected by thick peel
both defensive and alluring.
I slice them in half
one by one
and massacre them on the juicer
no warning
or mercy
squeezing the life out of these glorious, brilliant fruits.
Innards gushing into the bowl for all to see,
I conquer this impertinent object
and feel the juice of its existence
seeping into the nicks and cuts of my
beaten hands, stinging and searing the irritated skin.
The pain is welcome
because then at least I’ll know I’m alive
and the nectar of this passionate,
self-loathing world will course through my veins
to help me remember your absence
instilling in me, the naïve belief that
someday you will come home
to fix the burnt out light in the kitchen.
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