Lemonade

ice cracking on burlington bay, that’ll do it,
or sometimes just current events, sometimes
just lonely. it’s late this year, blame sunspots,
blame gravity, that angry rip current
bursting from those two black holes
that merged three billion years ago.
or the dwarf lilac, bereft of blooms
and choking on the byproducts of
combustion. a stick: i drove it into
the dirt like a conquistador, like
armstrong planting his flag, tied
it to a drooping branch on my
lemon tree. i wanted it to stand
tall, its pregnant flowers heavy
laden with fruit and straining
sunward. i wanted a truce in
my war against the invisible,
antlers instead of ear buds,
someone to vote for instead
of just against, a trusty guide
when tiptoeing drunk down
the spiral staircase. and what
fyodor promised us: beauty
enough to save the world.

Darrell Epp is the author of 3 poetry collections: Imaginary Maps, After Hours, and Sinners Dance. His next book, Mechanical Monkeys, will be published by Mosaic Press in 2020. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

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