My mother’s chapped hand pulls at my wrist
away from the blueberries,
stacked treasure troves of perforated plastic.
Tiny matte gemstones we could never afford
and yet there was always money for limes
strewn across the countertops, everywhere.
Once used, the key limes would reappear,
individually wrapped in plastic, in the fridge.
She left little tombstones for your drinks.
A graveyard of cocktails and their marriage.
I too will embalm them. I’ll build a pyramid
of limes to commemorate your dark habits.
Standing along it, every wound stinging,
mourning wildly for you.
You’ll be there too, but laughing
recklessly as you always did, barefooted
in your Costco Cargo shorts, fizzing jar of rum
in one hand, banjo in the other, behind you
a trail of limes. Empty peels and always
that astringent smell of your breath.