Citrus by Ekaterina Khakimullina

It’s like a fleck of gold

in a puddle of rainwater,

tremoring in a dish in the concrete,

I can see my blurred reflection, smiling,

a mandarin umbrella behind

my face, like a halo.

It’s a rare, good feeling;

a flicker of satisfaction;

the faint taste of hope.

The imaginary camera following my life,

for me, that’s my eyes,

pans out to look at the gray city.

The clouds part in the corner;

you can see the linear sun ray fall,

lighting up the trees, their leaves;

raindrops glistening, under each umbrella

a diamond is hidden in the rough,

my inner altruist feels them shine.

It smells like a queer, sultry summer.

It feels like the refraction of sunlight

through drops of summer rain,

ethereal and unforgivable.

It feels like the culmination

of all that has ever gone.

I look at the foggy skyscrapers,

as the strangers pass, I smell their perfume,

held together by a leather coat,

orange juice on my lips,

citrus blush on my cheeks,

no one looking at me, I think,

perhaps, this is all I will ever need.