The knife’s gone
but the lemon’s
cut rind uncurling
whispers

he was here

soft skin
caught falling

sighing

he was here

and hanging
in the slowed-down air

his scent

his turpentine
his earthy

as fruit

flies in a bar of sun

and wherever

he’s gone

(up early)

his thumbnails cede
pomegranate

flesh of my flesh

Rebecca Watts