Lemon Flavored Tears
At lunch I cut a lemon in half,
poked out its bitter seeds,
and squeezed it between my palms.
Its dangerous juice was cold against my naked skin,
but its peel was mellow and waxy.
Shaped like a baby’s cap and
softly stippled like an old man’s face,
a lemon’s glow is innocent and tempting.
Fly higher little bird.
I accidentally rubbed my eye and it stung harshly,
not like a bee sting but more
like a moth caught in a flame.
I closed my eyes and turned
to the restless darkness of salt and sour,
two second class tastes burning
down the back of my throat.
Blood flows into the ocean; I
should have known that
beautiful things will spread
like wildfire.
Hera had a garden where she hid
the sun away at night.
Sunlight scorched the rich earth and
out sprouted lemons.
poked out its bitter seeds,
and squeezed it between my palms.
Its dangerous juice was cold against my naked skin,
but its peel was mellow and waxy.
Shaped like a baby’s cap and
softly stippled like an old man’s face,
a lemon’s glow is innocent and tempting.
Fly higher little bird.
I accidentally rubbed my eye and it stung harshly,
not like a bee sting but more
like a moth caught in a flame.
I closed my eyes and turned
to the restless darkness of salt and sour,
two second class tastes burning
down the back of my throat.
Blood flows into the ocean; I
should have known that
beautiful things will spread
like wildfire.
Hera had a garden where she hid
the sun away at night.
Sunlight scorched the rich earth and
out sprouted lemons.
Michelle Johnson-Wang is originally from Washington DC. She has lived all over the world, writing in both English and Chinese, and currently resides in Singapore. Her work has been published in the anthology, Up To No Good.
Art: Sympathies for Convulsion by Cierra Rowe
