Limoncello
He asked if it pleased me
as if he wished to be there thirty years
ago, to plant the lemon grove
to please me. But there was no time
to sprawl with Giovanni, our branches
stained with grass. I drank lemon straight
in a shot glass. It was bitter and I shriveled,
hurried to get it down and wanted
sweet to level my spine.
The granita seller asked me:
Do you know Giovanni? Everyone
knows Giovanni.
My sleep was blue like Penelope’s
bedroom. The walls smelled
like ammonia and caves and water
dripped on my head. A branch came
through the window. There was one lemon
in Salina, unripe, moon green, and I climbed
its branch, over the leaves, out the window.
I was naked. It pulled me over the sea
and I ate the moon. No, I ate the lemon
while my legs dangled to the earth. Fires
in the town burned—not fires, drinks
and teeth in the streetlamps. Was there really
a shooting star? No, ever just the light
of the lemon.
ABIGAIL CLOUD is the Editor-in-Chief of Mid-American Review and teaches full time at Bowling Green State University. Read more.