He takes a bright green lime
and squeezes it into a clear pitcher
until juice streams into a trickle.
Tiny pouches of flavor pulse outward
like sea anemones throbbing
in an undulating wave, like a vagina
frayed and tingly. He takes the flat edge
of a spoon, goes in, gets what’s left
to make the glass sing. Saturday night
splashed with gin and swirl of seltzer
breaks the ice over winter’s long pause.
Spring arrives late as green gropes the ground
dragging it body and soul into this world,
with just enough zest to rim the lip.
Raise your glass, it’s time to celebrate.