And we are the fruits
of our labour;
where once I tried being sweet
is realisation no effort was
required. I asked you to kiss me
(hard) so as to take
as the lemon against your teeth
all that is bitter; sharp tastes of truth,
this lasting tang, telling me the bitter
on my lips was all you, where I
am an abundance of fruits.
The apple sits between my teeth
where I confess I lied
when I wrote
‘until I see you again’
when I no longer seek the dew drops of
your lips. Truths are what I tell others
when my legs part as the segments
of a clementine for them. Sweet, wet,
gentle to separate, coarse as orange skin
clothes peeled, vitamins exchanged,
as progress is made.
You spat my seeds out, lest
they took root in your soil,
equal parts acid and mineral as it is.
The earth of your ground was never
strong enough for the weight
of fruit: only able to bear the blossom
in the spring.
There was regret, of course. It was long,
slow. Far, far gone, washed down the garden path
were my little brown promises. They are so easily kept,
if watered enough; not petted
with tears down my telephone line each week
at 1 am. It is September again, and it rains
as it did last year, summer fruits coloured
grey. You were on my bed, tarot deck
spread beneath thin hands, rain splaying
the window: gentle slaps. And I put my hand
in your periphery, to entice you to take it. Your
hair was the right colour then, dark as earth.
If there was a place for you on my single now
your hair would be the bitter lemon of your
heart, rotten sunshine in curls; absentee
gardener, infrequent to tend. New clothes,
change of colour. A new lover too, his name
Florida, though I saw the love between you both
You don't sit here.
This September it rains
and it is less sad that you are not here.
I will write you my last, resist making it an epic
(you have denied us that), a poem of supposes
and lost fruits. Suppose, suppose, suppose.
I suppose you think this means
I still love you in some way.
You think wrong.
Our love can be found on an amazon page
eternal under the name of a dwindling forest;
appropriate still. Remembered, once mourned
and sold, pages I doubt you will bother
seeing. It is okay. We were love, the tipping
of spring into harvest, which would lay sacks
of citrus at the bare feet of running children.
You left the garden gate ajar, and the dust
and the beasts left the ground in ruin. I swing it
gently shut, pocketed house keys resting against
a pouch of seeds. The orchid on my window,
unbearing of fruit, dies. Grows a new self.
I know you will remember me
(I am hard to forget.) I know
regret is the taste of pink grapefruit's
false seduction. I know it will linger still
on the roof of your mouth, while I
can only taste the linger of lemonade,
no longer spilt on your forgetful mother's
kitchen floor. Store bought. Sugary.
And not yours.