Lemons Poem by Cherie Mort

I like to smell the sweet scent of lemon juice as I slice thin circles of citrus onto my cutting board, the rind making a soft sssh
sound as my knife separates its layers.

I pick up a round slice of lemon and pop it in my mouth. The taste is so sour that my mouth puckers, making the rest of my face contort as it follows suit. For a moment my face is frozen in a sour expression, slowly decompressing from its painful prison.

The tangy taste of lemon zest still numbs my mouth as I squeeze more lemons and pour the juice into a container half-full of ice. Citrus-scented oil releases itself onto my hands from the lemon rind, making it harder to extract the juice. I wipe my hands with a towel and continue my work.

Now I taste the bitter, inner white rind from that bite of lemon. It leaves an unsavory aftertaste in my mouth.

As I stir in some sugar along with the lemon slices I had cut up, I prepare two glasses for lemonade. I sit down at the table and drink the contents of my glass, the tart flavor leaving a refreshing feeling behind from what used to be freshly handpicked lemons.