The Lemon Divers of Amalfi

Amelia Gorman

Lemon tree roots clasp the cliff in place.

Sour liquor drips from the sun, sour ovals tumbledown.

We dove for lemons in the bright water

like pebbles ungrasped and free-falling into the sea.

Our bodies slick with stick,

our hands clutching treasures bigger than ourselves.

Fingernails driven into bitter nacre, we are such

small stones up against the bight’s wall and the fruit’s borders.

A burst membrane dissolves pearls, so we go

gently. No meat, we slip our fingers’ shadows between the pulp.

Let the sun hit the roots to blossom truth and sugar,

let the white flowers grow, harden, and slip inside the sand.

Let no unsaid morning clutter the horizon

so our leaps go solitary, loud and vain. Skin claps the surface.

Clasp, roots. And hold, cliff. Bite down on us

when we lie and when we are honest let us sink to the lemon beds.

AMELIA GORMAN lives in Eureka where she spends her time exploring tidepools and redwoods with her dogs and foster dogs. You can read some of her poetry in Vastarien and Strange Horizons. Her first chapbook, the Elgin-winning Field Guide to Invasive Species of Minnesota, is available from Interstellar Flight Press.