Limoncello in Positano


The glass is wet from the sea rising.

I consider the lemon cleaved open, bright

and lonely; a quilt of leaves, warm as sex.

Soon I’ll walk out to the dark night

where old men line the shelf on the curve

because the moon is settling blue in the fog.


The yellow bowl of defeat and fortune

flips. Desidero un biecchiere di tulipani.

Conceive red peppers, migrate toward

peaches: at night it’s the throb of fat lemons

that swell a landscape. I think: You will never

make a regular journey of walking home.


I want to hold moments like this in my mouth

because they will not line my veins forever.

I sip limoncello in Positano. The sea stirs below,

trucks quiet their motors. The beautiful woman

who kicks dogs carries boxes of fruit inside.


Originally published in Woman Made Art Gallery Her Mark Datebook.