Somewhere and I think I could put my hot mitts on it
there’s a film clip of my three year old sister
and her near-to-age girl cousin
sucking lemons, and for the camera,
which was my Dad,
they are smiling.
C-Vi calls this to mind.
What a beautiful memory contagion.
Lemons, little girls, dad camera, that summer’s day
and my twenties with a lime slice come into view.
Corona, naked without its signatory green twist–
chill bottle in hand, the other ceremonial poised
I engineered my lime through the narrow.
O yes yes wash your hands while singing My Corona three times,
but not so often that you chap.
Do not get buffaloed.
Wear the crown of this whatever changing
truth and its hysteria, bravely.
Through the shock of the idea of illness, of possibly dying,
may we smile one percent?
That is way less than Cheshire
or mini-est Mona Lisa.
One percent I feel out of my dropped face
first makes my nostrils flair. It’s a twitch.
I am a wild horse, catching whiffs of desert flowers.
I whinny all my way now to the open window to remember.
Dare I confess?
Instantly, I’m an inch away
from flashing swords.
** Corona means “Wreath or Crown” in Latin.