Pulp and Circumstance

Summer arrived. What

I wanted more

than anything was

lemonade. Hands grinding

halved fruit onto

that vaulted star,

I wrung a 

cup for you

before your flight.

Left behind was

sticky pulp, stink

on my fingers,

and rind beneath

my nails. Mixing

unequal parts simple

syrup and citrus,

I added sugar

to taste, desperate

not to erase

your bitter tang.