A kumquat bush crouches in the sedge
at playground’s edge
and I stand in the sand
mashing one of its persimmon thumbs
till oil prickles perfume
pills on its wax skin.
If I bite into this thin bright hide’s
sweet zest no marmalade
can pickle or preserve
until the fruit itself squirts acid over
those segments like
an orange’s in miniature
yet sourer than a lemon’s for
pretending not to be
and cankered by
tiny twisted pits, aborted kindnesses
one might call specks
in a neighbor’s eye
might I be able to swallow this
fruit of spite?
Might I like it?
