For James Ward Lee
Sometime
the smell of lemon
on my hands
reminds me of my father
and of being home
for the last time
the swollen acrid smell
of lemons
and the remembered yellow skin
with its pimples gone awry
dotting the landscape and
chasing the perfect oval
hull
covering all that is possible
to cover
in that seasonal lifetime
of a lemon
dotting the rise and sloping fall
of a hull:
Yellow to yellow-dotted black aromatic pore
seeping out the blinding
mellow
quick, sharp breaths
of this lemon life
a season of smelling
and tarting the tastes of things:
water into thirst quinching ‘ades
fish from bland sea palate
into a chasing, feverish rush
of once fighting muscle
pulling tightly against the line
making this plate
of bones and baked flesh
again
worth the swollen chest
of its being here
lemon
the squeaky run of its juice
of my hands
fingers
chasing tightly into the
smallest cut
into the hell of broken flesh
into the naked wounds
of being
home
for the last time
Home Home Home
sometimes
the worst of the four lettered
words
Home
for the last time
with my father’s breath
packed and ready to go
leaving his heaving
hairy chest
beneath his sweat soaked
death shirt
home
like his last words
“lemonade” & “son”
home
running over me
there–
here–
with these lemons
bursting under my grip
spilling
exploding
crying the hot juice
of giving in
like my father
who
wanted lemonade
as his last
throat quinching drink
So he asked me
to make it
and now
the smell of lemon
on my hands
will mean
always
that his throat is dry
in a room
that’s just a sting
and a step away
.
.
.
.Copyright Jas Mardis 1999 Awarded the Voertman Poetry Award and published in Our Texas anthology , Center For Texas Studies @ University of North Texas Press, Denton, TX.
Jas Mardis 