I hold the liquid under my tongue,
feel the juice furring my teeth,
rub the lemon oil on my fingers,
think of being ten—and you.
Whenever I see a glass of water
next to a lemon, bright in sunlight,
I remember you carefully sawing
a lemon in half, arthritic fingers
curled around it, squeezing
juice into a tumbler, pips sinking
down to the bottom of the glass:
drinking it all down, the sweetness
and bitterness, together.