Citrus
Judith Terzi
A visit from the USDA today.
Lydia wipes off milky residue
from a yellowing leaf. She wraps
the suspect in a paper towel, seals it
in a Ziploc bag to send to Sacramento.
Biopsy of a leaf. Someone's cancer
came back last week; others continue
chemo. Two years, three. Radiation
for another: five days a week for six
weeks. Manuscripts charred, spared.
Two tricolors harmonize while chic
Parisian shoes sink into African soil,
into history's tricks. Amulets, bracelets
clank. Cow horns, gourds reverberate.
Timbuktu jives––and a baby is named
François. Elsewhere, refugees squat,
drink cloudy tea, eat watermelon cut
into perfect triangles. Men in burkas
lurk in green valleys, ready to burn
the dew, kill more than half the sky.
Then there's the urgent afternoon call:
"How do I access iCloud?" You look up,
I say. You look way up as high as you can
through branches of an orange tree.
It's best if it's free and clear of citrus
disease. iCloud is paragliding like
the two characters in a French movie.
Who is the hero: the quadriplegic or
the caregiver? Tap into dormant sensuality,
I say: Soak in peppermint or lavender. Or
lemon verbena. Get a diamond ear stud;
wrap yourself in a scarlet kimono. Or
tangerine. Keep pushing your boulder
up the slope, stopping every now and then
to take a sip from a jumbo Orange Julius.
Listen to Judith read the poem here:
A visit from the USDA today.
Lydia wipes off milky residue
from a yellowing leaf. She wraps
the suspect in a paper towel, seals it
in a Ziploc bag to send to Sacramento.
Biopsy of a leaf. Someone's cancer
came back last week; others continue
chemo. Two years, three. Radiation
for another: five days a week for six
weeks. Manuscripts charred, spared.
Two tricolors harmonize while chic
Parisian shoes sink into African soil,
into history's tricks. Amulets, bracelets
clank. Cow horns, gourds reverberate.
Timbuktu jives––and a baby is named
François. Elsewhere, refugees squat,
drink cloudy tea, eat watermelon cut
into perfect triangles. Men in burkas
lurk in green valleys, ready to burn
the dew, kill more than half the sky.
Then there's the urgent afternoon call:
"How do I access iCloud?" You look up,
I say. You look way up as high as you can
through branches of an orange tree.
It's best if it's free and clear of citrus
disease. iCloud is paragliding like
the two characters in a French movie.
Who is the hero: the quadriplegic or
the caregiver? Tap into dormant sensuality,
I say: Soak in peppermint or lavender. Or
lemon verbena. Get a diamond ear stud;
wrap yourself in a scarlet kimono. Or
tangerine. Keep pushing your boulder
up the slope, stopping every now and then
to take a sip from a jumbo Orange Julius.
Listen to Judith read the poem here:
Working notes
"Citrus" began as a piece about the country's obsession with the fiscal cliff, but before I knew it, other obsessions began parading in front of me, from disease to murder to iCloud. I watched French President François Hollande in Timbuktu and was so moved, I wanted to incorporate some impressions of this visit into the poem. I tried to keep the citrus theme alive to the end, though the poem's original title was "Parade."
About the author
Judith Terzi is the author of Sharing Tabouli (Finishing Line). Recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in American Society: What Poets See (FutureCycle Press); Malala: Future Cycle Press Anthology; Poemeleon; Myrrh, Mothwing, Smoke: Erotic Poems (Tupelo Press); The Prose-Poem Project, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and Web. She taught high school French for many years as well as English at California State University, Los Angeles, and in Algiers, Algeria.