Share this story
Close X
Switch to Desktop Site

The lime

Squeezing rind against skin I call the luna moth, wings dusting air like perfume. Wing to lip, antennae to hand he leaves the pollen's gift. A trace of lime follows him into the arc light. Later at night I enter the garden. Where I have dropped seed, lime trees are growing. The branches send semaphore messages to a silver-skinned elm, who, at half-point, begins her relevee. My toes take the ground. Night breathes on my naked limbs bathed in gesture. So much begins from stillness. At my fingertips the pale green flowers wave.

Follow Stories Like This
Get the Monitor stories you care about delivered to your inbox.