Jeni De La O
Jeni De La O is an Afro-Cuban poet and storyteller living in Detroit. She is the author of Lady Parts, forthcoming from Grey Borders Books in April 2019. Her work has appeared in Obsidian, Tinderbox, Rigorous Magazine, Fifth Wednesday, Gigantic Sequins and others. Jeni edits poetry for Rockvale Review and organizes Poems in the Park, an acoustic reading series based in Detroit.
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The Weight of Lemons
Citrus and fresh wood, summer at seven;
mmm, the smell of them. Lemons that cut
through the heaviest, that bring the brightest,
that will cut you--sting you, and also lift you
on the right winter evening, when you’re seven
inches of snow away from your tropical home.
Blizzards are deafeningly silent and
I miss the rustling palms of home, sometimes.
Always lemons, the weight of lemons—on a silver
scale, against a replica of a replica of a gleaming metal
disc in France—the last uncalculated measure
of love. The weight of lemons is
the distance between the end of abuela’s cigarette
and my cashmere lined gloves; between
your front porch jungle of jasmine and the salted
hem of my wool trousers; the two of us, who call
(or don’t) each day, despite the pithiness. The two of us,
who love so brightly.
mmm, the smell of them. Lemons that cut
through the heaviest, that bring the brightest,
that will cut you--sting you, and also lift you
on the right winter evening, when you’re seven
inches of snow away from your tropical home.
Blizzards are deafeningly silent and
I miss the rustling palms of home, sometimes.
Always lemons, the weight of lemons—on a silver
scale, against a replica of a replica of a gleaming metal
disc in France—the last uncalculated measure
of love. The weight of lemons is
the distance between the end of abuela’s cigarette
and my cashmere lined gloves; between
your front porch jungle of jasmine and the salted
hem of my wool trousers; the two of us, who call
(or don’t) each day, despite the pithiness. The two of us,
who love so brightly.
Commentary
Jeni on "The Weight of Lemons":
I grew up in South Florida and my backyard was home to mango, avocado, bitter orange, lime and lemon trees. Citrus like lemons and limes are a staple in Floridian and Caribbean cuisine, they’re so much a part of our culture it’s easy to forget that they’re not native to the region; they were brought over and cultivated by the Spaniards who conquered those territories in the 13th century and have since thrived, becoming part of the local landscape. I wanted to write a piece that conveyed two simultaneous experiences: the sense of existing outside where you’re from and the physically heavy sensation of homesickness that can exist alongside the brightness of thriving elsewhere. To convey a sense of the physical weight of homesickness I brought in the reference to le grand k. Literally every other type of measurement in the world is mathematically calculated except for the Kilogram, which is still calculated against a physical disc of metal. I love the tangibility of this measure, and the contrast it provides against the maddeningly intangible sense of loving across great distance. Lemons, having become part of the fabric of South Florida, are the perfect metaphor for acclimation. “The Weight of Lemons” is a sort of sad love song for my mom, who will forever ask me to move back to Florida, despite how proud she is of me for making it “up north.”
EIC Christine Taylor on "The Weight of Lemons":
I spent the first half of my adult life living overseas in Hong Kong, so the homesickness that Jeni illuminates in her poem spoke to me. Having lived my entire childhood in the same house in Plainfield, New Jersey, I thought I would be happier being away, and although I valued experiencing another part of the world, I longed for home. The "weight" of being the only black American at my job and in my village wore on me over time. I came home after my mother passed away, and now I'm back in the same house in Plainfield, a reconciliation I never expected.
I grew up in South Florida and my backyard was home to mango, avocado, bitter orange, lime and lemon trees. Citrus like lemons and limes are a staple in Floridian and Caribbean cuisine, they’re so much a part of our culture it’s easy to forget that they’re not native to the region; they were brought over and cultivated by the Spaniards who conquered those territories in the 13th century and have since thrived, becoming part of the local landscape. I wanted to write a piece that conveyed two simultaneous experiences: the sense of existing outside where you’re from and the physically heavy sensation of homesickness that can exist alongside the brightness of thriving elsewhere. To convey a sense of the physical weight of homesickness I brought in the reference to le grand k. Literally every other type of measurement in the world is mathematically calculated except for the Kilogram, which is still calculated against a physical disc of metal. I love the tangibility of this measure, and the contrast it provides against the maddeningly intangible sense of loving across great distance. Lemons, having become part of the fabric of South Florida, are the perfect metaphor for acclimation. “The Weight of Lemons” is a sort of sad love song for my mom, who will forever ask me to move back to Florida, despite how proud she is of me for making it “up north.”
EIC Christine Taylor on "The Weight of Lemons":
I spent the first half of my adult life living overseas in Hong Kong, so the homesickness that Jeni illuminates in her poem spoke to me. Having lived my entire childhood in the same house in Plainfield, New Jersey, I thought I would be happier being away, and although I valued experiencing another part of the world, I longed for home. The "weight" of being the only black American at my job and in my village wore on me over time. I came home after my mother passed away, and now I'm back in the same house in Plainfield, a reconciliation I never expected.