ODE TO LEMON
Poetry is a Language that can’t be drawn from either. Think of a sugared citron. Or a Mario Batali lemon mousse. Yes, the magic in creation is evident in the created — beauty, taste achievement, sparkles in your eyes — but the feeling is elusive, love is offered up. What is writing without a lemon? What is cooking without a friend? Pick up a dead critter in the kitchen. Marvel at Dave Chappelle. It is impossible to never mind the pain. The lemon is still in the fridge, topside off, squeezed to lift the flavor of the crushed tomato gazpacho yesterday. Semantically the leftover fruit is the poet’s connection to the source of a poem. If only she’ll be there.
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