Philippine Lemon
We call it
calamansi.
Even that last
syllable tastes
sharp and sour.
Scorching days
are a dime
a dozen in
my city. At
eleven o’ clock,
when I can’t
sleep, I go
to the kitchen
and squeeze
a dollop of the
concentrate into
a glass and
fill it to the brim
with chilled
water. Even the
tinkling of the
soda spoon
is part of it.
I close my eyes
and I am
engulfed
in a cool
citrus
garden.
August 4, 2021
Image by The Little Epicurean
Day 3, Poem no. 7 for The Writing Oasis (Summer 2021) with Beth Kempton
