by allison linville
under rugs and
end tables tipping
you went home,
waiting for things to get longer but
you really couldn’t wait.
Not for buses or ripening
lemons on the tiny tree or the sun
to rise earlier or the hay to dry
or the empty box car to stop right in front of where you stood.
You know the smell when you open it? Let that slide.
All the juice, all the juice, all the juice.
This is clementine.
Slowly glide toward citrus fruits from earlier years,
Left behind a steaming
jade plant, followed by
the ocean’s best seaweed and
the old insulation puffing out.
You say: pies are only made in the daylight,
when your eyes are roughed up and your floor
walks in front of you.
So much to tell, to tell, to tell.