Citrus

The world ended in February
over grapefruits so acidic they burned the tastebuds off of our tongues
and all the things we had waited to say at once were lost
and my mother crated them high up on a shelf
and said all good things would one day be taken away
Over pulpy forks, this was our first lesson in grieving

 My second came from white sheets that smelled
bright like lemons
from all the places the stains had been scrubbed clean
and we stood over them
as he looked at his hands
and he told me to go home
and I could not feel his eyes on me as I walked away

The fleeting,
like clothes on the clothes line, coming undone
I, left hanging
like a basket from the hip of my mother
Hiding like a shadow in the crook of her arm
Begging,
Please let this be the one that stays

 My father would find me between two halves of a grapefruit,
the smell of terpene on my hair
and I was left with a scent that I could not shake
like the past biting at my feet,
with the juice dripping from my chin like an apology that said:
This will not last forever, father
The world is ending
and all shall be better
and I will see
soon enough.

---

Katie Palmer

Kalie Palmer is an upcoming poet and writer from Detroit, Michigan. Her poems focus on nature, fruit, and the cyclical representation found in the imagery of both. "Citrus" was originally published under the title "Apocalypse" in Soundings Literary and Visual Arts Journal in 2016.