James Miller

Wedding Cake

You bought 107 lemons from Joe V’s.
We will say 107 as no one had will to count them.
Cat’s tongues catching at thumbs.

I stood beside you in the kitchen, sliced
and fit their flesh into your grandmother’s heavy press.
Pulled her lever down with my balance hand,
right palm otherwise mostly good for finding
door frames in the dark.

Juice dribbled pale into a measuring glass,
till bitter skim approached the fluted lip.
Pour, and pour. Some would flavor
the batter, some we saved
for icing.

I drew life out of each half, piled
their damp seeds and wilted knob-ends
in grocery plastic. Worked till my knees ached.
Behind, you pulled layer on layer
from the oven.

Late, I slept on the couch, and you stooped
to take a picture. Midnight tilted,
slightly, to the left. Wrist
flushed on the pillow
over my head.

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James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast. He is published in Best Small Fictions 2021 (Sonder Press) and in the Marvelous Verses Anthology (Daily Drunk Press). Recent pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in Watershed Review, Phoebe, Yemassee, Elsewhere, West Trade Review, Sledgehammer Lit, Neologism, Press Pause, Coal Hill Review and Indianapolis Review. Follow on Twitter @AndrewM1621.