I am good at thumbing a red brain freeze out of the roof of my mouth.
I sit at the kitchen counter alone,
Licking my chapped lips and the searing cuts of sour at the dry edges of my skin.
I’m good at the face that comes with lemon ice,
when a baby tastes sour for the first time,
Mouth squeezing into a tiny o, eyes squinting with distaste.
I like thinking about me having a lemon ice, too.
Not in my stretch cotton pants and shrunken T-shirt,
but lemon ice, evoking some white summer dress
and the east coast, so green.
A day in white shoes and wide-brimmed umbrellas, by the sea or a river,
And lemon ice, dainty and chill as the lace on our hats.
(Note: This was a little inspired by the work of Billy Collins.)