Citrus

Citrus is the name of a language that I can’t seem to remember.

To speak it you must singe the tongue with hot embers.

My mother is fond of charred lemons.

I peel away at the albedo on my orange.

“Ach!” The sour citrus hurts my teeth.

My mouth is doused in familiarity.

“An orange fell in the lemon orchard!”

Or a different order.

Lemon trees have sharp branches

That pierce the flesh with ease.

Lemons caked with dirt and rain

Gathering in my shirt’s crease.

My mother doesn’t want me eating lemons

Because the produce this year was not promising

She’d rather I eat the saccharine, rotten,

Deceiving bright orange.

I hand-pick clean, vibrant lemons in

The produce aisle.

And when I go home and tear it open,

The sweet citrus tastes much like bile.