Author Information
lemonade aftertaste
Folder:
clarifying poem
They set out the jug
as if this were their idea of kindness,
as if the whole scene were arranged
to show how thoughtful they can be.
You watch them slice the citrus,
all flourish and chatter,
their hands moving with the confidence
of people certain they’ve done enough.
They pour the mix with ceremony,
glancing over to be sure you’re looking,
waiting for the moment
their effort lands as praise.
But the glass tells the truth.
What they’ve made is sharp,
thin on the tongue,
missing what would make it generous.
They’ve kept that part aside,
the part that costs them something.
Still, they offer it up
as though you should be grateful,
as though this drink settles a debt
you never asked them to carry.
They talk about how refreshing it is,
how good it feels to share,
never noticing your quiet sip,
never sensing the gap
between gesture and care.
And when they step back
through your vestibule
and head off with that easy stride,
the taste shifts.
What they left behind
settles in slowly—
a faint bitterness rising
once their voices fade,
the kind that stays longer
than the visit ever did.
.
