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.