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The Klyde Robinson Poetry Prize

Mary Hutchins Harris
Charleston, SC

 

How the fall

of lemons, louder than light, left her longing for one of her own, one unspoiled lemon to lift its squeezed scent to her tongue, the back of it, where it meets her ears, hollow now, after what’s lost lingers in a broom, her fist wrapped around what rolls to her feet, what tethers her lips, the nipple at its ebb and flow, what resembles yellow, and what’s left in the wordless throat