Content Warning: Reference to Death
My mom likes to add sugar to me like a bee distributing pollen
(which is to say, like it's her job)
And bake me for a long time at low heat
(to keep my loaf dewy)
The children on the corner
Mix my concentrate with water for a quick nickel.
Later they’ll learn to mix me with something stronger
But equally translucent.
I was muddled to death, my acidity co-opted
A porous fruit who cloys when crushed
Only sweet when extinguished or stamped
Out or snuffed.
My shell was used, and my pulpy insides too
My sweet and sour conflation deemed conquerable.
My scent is fresh, used to clean up a mess,
But cut me open too quickly and I’ll sting your eyes.
Dad always says the best flavor can be found in the rind
So go ahead: grind my rind to zest up your life and I'll let you
Until there’s no tartness left for either of us, I’ll let you,
Over and over again, until it’s time to discard my carcass.
I’ll thank you kindly with a pucker.
I prefer an unhurried death: pulped out,
Used up, leaving you with an evanescent
Fragrance, and a raw, bloodied tongue.