tangerines

Ate almost nothing but tangerines that summer—
boxes full—
from the farmers market
so cheap and juicy
but without that waxy film.

You were there, I think
but we both know
you can’t trust a word that’s
scented with tangerine breath.

Deceptively sweet and tangy –

sticky fingers
sticky lies.

It wasn’t like that happy summer I ate
all those cherries—
pits pose a new set
of problems.
I hid them under your bed
in a forgotten tube sock.
I’m not sure why
I guess I thought they’d
remind you of me
years later
when you found them
and maybe you’d smile.

But you found them that tangerine summer
and you didn’t smile.
You hurled them at me

stinging handfuls of pits
stinging mouthfuls of lies

my feet didn’t move
my hand squeezed tight
on a tangerine
as juice trickled down my tan leg.

©2009 Jes M Harmon

Summer I was Six

The Summer I Was Six
my brother was five
and always wore a neon green hat.
I wore cut-off jean shorts
and hot pink canvas sneakers.
He was a cowboy on a broomstick horse
the garden hose, his lasso.
I didn’t know I was his target
until the metal tip broke my front tooth.
We played Ninja Turtles,
I always had to be April
because I was the girl.
I just wanted to be Raphael.
We were superheroes
with baby blanket capes,
our dog played too:
Super-Boy, Super-Girl, Super-Dog.
We had a Kool-aid and cookie stand.
We ran through the sprinkler for hours
and played marbles in the dirt.
My brother fell in a bike race,
I was the finish line.
Screaming, I ran to get Ma,
and he had to get staples in his head.
We played Sega Genesis
and Ma made us set a timer,
otherwise, he’d never let me play.
We spilled red paint on the carpet
and covered it so Ma wouldn’t find out.
Our hamster rolled down the stairs
in its purple plastic ball.
We laughed till it hurt,
and didn’t tell her about that either.
It was hot, Ma was pregnant and tired;
she couldn’t chase us as fast.
Our dog had puppies in the basement
and we watched through our fingers.
There were thirteen but three died.

We loved our baby sister more than the puppies.

©2009 Jes M Harmon

I Love Phil

Phil with the bandana who plays a seven string guitar. Phil with earrings and a goatee, who wears Adidas sneakers and likes lemonade. Phil the writer who mumbles. Phil with long brown hair and a silver ring on his right index finger. Phil who hates me.


(This poem was written for a friend named Phil. I don't know where he is or what he's doing now, but this poem makes me think of him and makes me laugh.)

©2009 Jes M Harmon

Honey

The vacuum cleaner sounds like a swarm of bees, but I don’t even like honey, you say. I look at you with my black eyebrows raised and say what the hell does that have to do with anything and who the hell doesn’t like honey? That’s like not liking pizza or vanilla ice cream. You remind me that you don’t like pizza and you really prefer chocolate and I wonder why I’m even talking to you Why we’re even in the same room and why I even bother kissing a person who doesn’t like honey, pizza or vanilla ice cream. I can’t help it that every time I eat an apple it reminds me of your mouth and the taste of your tongue. And I can’t help it that sometimes I eat a spoonful of honey before we kiss.

©2009 Jes M Harmon