Serrano y Lima

She is slicing limes
in the kitchen

as July becomes a baptism
of sweat
down my back
and my neck
and my arms

kneeling to pull up
the iron-willed weeds
stealing the shade
of the rosebushes

I have ignored them too long
and they are confident
in the depth
and reach
of their roots

She is slicing limes
in the kitchen
slowly

I’ve abandoned the trowel
abandoned
the spade
stooped and
scratching
wrenching
digging
with dry fingers
in quiet dust
in a quiet
war

and the pepper of earth
in my nostrils
reminds me
and the slick drops
sliding from my temple
remind me
and the way they bead
and sink
on thirsty ground
reminds me

She is slicing limes
in the kitchen
slowly
in a thin dress
swaying

My progress is slow
my weedpile
laughable
to the dandilions
to the crabgrass
to the sighing
rosebushes

It is mostly leaves
and stems
and very little
of anything
unearthed
and I wipe a wet face
with a damp shirt

She has stopped
slicing limes
in the kitchen
in her thin dress
as her eyes
close
as she sways

her hair knotted loosely
off her shoulders
as a gypsy guitar
sings low
from another room
as my hands spread
across her belly

Her finger
is the tang of lime
on my lips
as July drinks the juice
from the cutting board
as July baptizes us
in the kitchen
down our backs
abandoned

as dandelions
laugh
and rosebushes
know