The Lemon

I grasp
A lemon
Fresh and firm
Bright yellow
Bicep curling
It to the counter
Steady under hand
Pressing its erratic
Tendency to wobble
I Cut it in half
One side rolls off
On a tight axis.
The inside layer is white
Like the mouth
Of a cotton mouth cobra.
Pale yellow juice
Glazes over
The exposed
Inner flesh
Into a few fat drops.
I cut the halves into quarters
And lift a wet slice
To my mouth
Down a rush
Of sour citrus.
Whistling tea
Excites her voice
From the other room.
I put a wedge
Into two mugs
And breathe sweet perfume
In rising tendrils of steam.

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