March 2022
Bio Note: Fellow poets, I am relieved to have survived January, though the first big winter storm is on the way. I currently live with a bad haircut and the prospect of an imminent total knee replacement come spring. Our dog Boone passed suddenly in his sleep and dances no more to greet my homecomings. His absence leaves me more than sad. I have recently begun to publish short fiction but still struggle to organize poems into collections. I am considering printing them out, throwing them into the air, and allowing the wind to decide.
Preserving Lemons in January
Lingerie can molder quickly
as fresh lemons in mesh bags, bought
in bulk against paranoia of the next
shortages of sugar & yeast.
To preserve lemons, I scrub
produce wax from dimpled rinds,
sever nippled ends from Aureolin
elliptical suns foreign to this
latitude, shake frost white Kosher salt
between segments of clean quartered
citrus, wedge them into a waiting sterile
jar, stressing juice from teardrop sacs
clustered between membranes. Acid
seeps into salt crystals that dissolve
to permeate the acid. This exchange,
this condiment a Moroccan specialty,
smells of Abdul, a handsome Arab man
from Marrakesh who looked & smoked
& boozed & laughed & understood seed
science like my father. Both men January
rams. Who sugared strawberries at my table,
bit into succulent flesh & strained sweetness
through his teeth. Who cheated with a baguette-
shaped woman more fluent in French than I.
More like my father than I realized. Hand fisted,
I mash down lemons, glass weight them
to drown in their own brine. To soften & mellow
to be eaten whole, Exocarp, Albedo, pith and all.
©2022 Shelly J. Norris
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