Lemons
by Julianne DiNenna
I can’t make you believe.
Lemon is a fruit, an acid,
an acid fruit you hurled at me.
Lemon juice you squeezed from ripe lemons down my skin,
You scrubbed till I bled red acid, still not yellow,
grated away my rinds, swirled them into cakes you gave away.
I can’t tell you
how you only tasted the sour lemon in me,
how you made me want to cut myself,
squeeze myself out, become a real lemon,
how I just wanted you to love me
for my greasy olive skin even if it never shone bright
but deep like the earth, how you said lemons cut grease,
how I belonged in the pit of it.
I can’t make you believe
how I want to shine a globe sun lemon,
a yellow gemstone lemon, radiating from the sun,
how lemon scent fills an empty, airless soul,
how its blossoms attract the sun,
how lemons sweeten the tongue.
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