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?