How To Write A Poem About Clementines (In the Cold)

By Alex Crowthers

I told myself to write until I lose steam,
but nothing comes to mind.
no over-analysis of this room,
no metaphorical think about the nature of the universe,
no typically unnoticed details I can turn into poetry.
maybe I could write about discomfort,
but i’m pretty at peace, besides cool air that has
somehow
sneaked into this empty room at my boyfriend’s
house
— so cold I almost need gloves as my fingers hover
over the keyboard, thinking...
maybe I could write about physics,
how gravity works quite well against this mushy
clementine I’ve left in my school bag.
Maybe if I throw it around,
I’ll find inspiration from its bruises,
but I’ve found a fresh one and decided to use it as
a snack.
‍ ‍Clementine saved.
maybe I could write about love,
how it glows within my body,
even when I forget to acknowledge it.
how it always returns, even in passing of strang
ers.
It’s my reliable departure from doubt and indiffer
ence.
let’s try this again...
Right Now, I only have one thin sweatshirt on
because I usually prefer cold over claustrophobic layering...
Maybe I underestimated how badly I would desire warmth at this moment.

My fingers are so cold right now, staying at my boyfriend’s house
while he’s off in Charleston, warm.
(god...) I know the relief he feels for a change in scenery.

Unimportant circumstances place me here, alone,
and I just happen to be searching for poetic inspiration
while inhabiting a space that usually brings us both together.
I don’t like it here without him.
I also don’t like the term “Boyfriend”.
“Boyfriend” to me insinuates impermanence; he’s more my “partner”.

I knew he’d be beyond temporary the first time we met
— face to face sharing our souls for 7 hours straight
until the day turned to night and we got too cold to stay out.
I accidentally left my wallet in his car that night,
a hint towards many other entanglements and
moments of trust we would leave in each other’s hands.

‍ ‍He always gives me half of his freshly peeled clementines,
‍ ‍a citrusy reminder of his sweetness.

I’m sitting here at his kitchen table, and all I am thinking about is how present he feels.
He has unintentionally permeated through
the smallest fixtures in my life and livelihood,
like a song I sung as a child returning to me 21 years later.

Gravity tethers me to the earth but
he grounds me in ways that make me believe I can fly.
He gives me a lightness that defies physics, a love that inspires.
I have no need to throw myself in hopes of developing bruises
that will produce words on a page or notes on a guitar.
‍ ‍Instead, I’ll eat a clementine.

He makes me believe in:
“Energy is neither created nor destroyed,
it can only be changed from one form to another”.
It must be true — some people I’ve met before,
in another lifetime or physical form.
I can see why people turn to God(s) for answers.

‍ ‍If I believed in reincarnation, I’d come back as a clementine tree and
‍ ‍bear my fruit to all who desire to write their partner a love poem.

But this wasn’t meant to be a love poem,
but as I peel open this clementine and eat both halves,
I am reminded poetry doesn’t always have to be thrilling. Neither does love.

Sometimes all it is is sharing the better half of
the only snack left on your countertop.

‍ ‍I hope the perfume of this fruit
‍ ‍lingers in the air long enough for his return.