Poetry: ‘Her name was not clementine’

Fringe ArtsPoetryGabriela Vasquez-Rondon — Published November 24, 2021 1 minute

in the palm of my hand

you placed a clementine 

the gentlest touch of fingers on skin

a warm tanned hand on mine

yours

interlaced fingers 

that will never truly be held in such a way

silly sour idea

that wraps and unwraps itself 

like a too long clementine peel

kitchen counter

2:13 a.m.

forgotten citrus peel

that reminds me of green gardens and a laugh as sweet as ripe fruit

now a habit of many months

i find myself on a lonesome waltz

with the lingering clementine smell

picking up the discarded pieces you left behind

i’m alone in the room

prickling 

i still feel the ghost of your touch sticking to me

in the same familiar way 

the zesty scent remains on both fingernail and air

a gesture of care that was no more than a momentous sensation

for me

an exchange of good faith 

for you

they say sharing a clementine is proof of love

and now I think

maybe I should have peeled some more

how many more I wonder

to keep you from leaving 

and

picking apart 

my bitter citrus skin 

my too ripe clementine heart

Read more: Poetry: ‘This girl is not romantic’