Where Would We Be
without lemons, shining among avocados
and tomatoes, papery heads of garlic,
netted bags of shallots in the produce aisle?
Here at the solstice, sunset starts at four.
Clouds hang on the mountains,
a long gray cape fading slowly to black.
My eyesight returns.
I can almost read this now,
with my right eye shut, peering through
lenses with my head tilted back.
I climb the stairs with my hands bound.
I hear my own footfalls creaking as I go.
I taste lemons. My glands constrict
with the memory, and I smell
crushed garlic as it hugs the spoon.
Tonight we’ll light a fire, crack open nuts,
pour out some chilled Chablis.
Outside, fog entwines the street,
lamps glowing in blurry halos behind the trees.