Not Quite Amalfi

Poetry

I love the way lemons arrive as if from a book, 
fall sweet to bitter from a myth into liquor –

I love the way when citrus undresses
it can never be clothed again, as in conversation

when my words go just a little too far 
and you eat the garnish from my glass. 

No going back. At some point in sculpting 
his Pietà, Michelangelo hammered a bit too much, 

then stopped, as all artists must. It is finished, 
he might have said, the surprise of failed intent 

how it’s possible to worship imperfection. I would never 
dream of changing you, I say, in the late hours, 

when exhausted I have let go all judgment 
and our skin falls back against the sheets, 

the ripple of a crisp morning lake, and the bed 
like a hand holds us steady on the water.

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[Image credits: ‘Citron’ (c. 1715) by Bartolomeo Bimbi; ‘The Pietà’ (1498–1499) by Michelangelo; ‘Resting Girl’ (1753) by François Boucher]