Limes by the dozen
It’s the Republican National Convention
from Monday to Friday and I came into
consciousness eating tart lemon cake
straight from the pan, scraping the acid
crumbs from the pan’s pretty aluminum,
painted with burned crust and peel,
palms shining with butter grime, like I’m a
piggybank I’m trying to break.
A woman with a taste for sour.
The night before I’d poured myself sips
from the balsamic bottle with a spoon.
I’ve even been caught drinking the
juice from the pickle jar. What hole
in me has opened that needs to shiver,
sharp, and pucker to come somewhere
close to closed?
The shadow over us
I think my smile is uneven
and smirks up on the right
because of the evening
that you slapped me on the
underside of the left jaw
and sent the aura hopping.
There are facts that you
never prune.
The big dipper, for example,
is always a shadow above
me every evening walk,
though I never ask to see it,
in fact I am sick of seeing it,
take it down or teach me
some new constellation,
but the back of the spoon dangles
and I must acknowledge,
There is the big dipper,
that rises like the moon.
Jessie Ratcliffe is a writer and poet, who holds a degree in creative writing. Her most recent writing has been featured in Inklette Magazine.
