October 03, 2022

 

 

 

Lemons

by Arminé Iknadossian

 

 

     after Joy Harjo


She had lemons 
who cracked open from too much ripeness.
She had lemons 
who looked ripe but tasted of pennies.

She had lemons 
who crooned to her,
lemons that smoked unfiltered cigarettes,
lemons that rolled down mountains to be near her.

She had lemons
that found all her cuts to pour themselves into,
that went off to war and were first to be killed,
that came back from war and only craved salt.

She had lemons 
that wallowed in hospital beds, 
wallowed in bad marriages, swallowed pills
colored seafoam green and burnt sienna.

She had Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons,
lemons in the shape of Buddha’s hand,
lemons named after saints,
lemons from Greece, Lisbon, Avalon
skin like alligators.

Some lemons
sat in her decorative bowl for weeks
unsqueezed, unmouthed, a steady
diet of lemon juice in a cold glass of water.

She gathered her skirt to hold dozens of lemons - 
bird-bitten, eyeing her from the ground.
She let go of her skirt so many times,
let them roll away without notice. 

 

 

 

 

 

_______________  

Born in Beirut, Lebanon, Arminé Iknadossian’s family fled to California when she was four years old to escape the civil war. After graduating from UCLA, Iknadossian earned an MFA in Creative Writing at Antioch University. The author of All That Wasted Fruit (Main Street Rag), Iknadossian’s work is included in XLA Anthology, Tlacuilx: Tongues in Quarantine, Whale Road Review, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, MacQueen’s Quarterly, and The American Journal of Poetry. She has received fellowships from Idyllwild Arts, The Los Angeles Writing Project and Otis College of Art and Design. She lives in Long Beach, California where she offers writing workshops and private manuscript consultations.

 

 

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