LEMON SQUARES
~ by Lisa Ann Reilich
It took me five whole years to eat lemon
squares again, to allow them to be made
in this kitchen which once held you and all
your edible love. Between puckering tongue
and ceiling of my mouth, tart sweet sunshiney
yellow holds the telling taste of your one-corner-
higher-than-the-other-smile, your sea glass heart,
your Puck-like mischievous eyes.
And also, now, the crushing sadness of your presence
gone — yet here — the emptiness of the kitchen
tiles — how they miss your weight holding them
down — how they struggle now not to fly loose into
the sink — the absence of your footfalls on our waiting
stairs — how they echo still with your toddler to teen
pitter patter out of time — the disappearance of your
Marlboro Blacks mixed with vanilla perfume — swirling
still whenever incense smoke drifts
heavy in the house air.
Now I taste it all — coming through my mouth, across
my tastebuds, sliding down, into my rock-weighted
fist-tight chest, through my stinging clouded, yet still
parched eyes —
the taste of how you alone could keep
my night sky from falling armed only
with lemons, eggs, sugar and a whisk
in our little orange enameled pot.
The taste of heartbreak. So delicious.
Like the stubborn taste, touch,
scent of this salty sea that lives
deep inside, now breaching —
They taste just like you.
***