Runcible Spoon

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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.