He made me want a clementine

He made me want a clementine, the tidy, sweet kind they pick at Kibbutzim south of Jerusalem.
The thought of Jerusalem made me want a plane ticket, and the plane ticket made me want my love to come with me, and then I wanted his hands on my breasts and then a long rest.
The long rest was in aching winter and we lied like stacked coins, warm from the fire.
The fire made me remember my grandmother's stories, and my grandmother's stories reminded me of the doleful tone in which she told them.
My grandmother's grief and worry made me want a remedy. I made the remedy out of words and put them in a letter that I sealed in an envelope with hot wax from a candle. 

He took my letter to the mailbox in the truck with the bent left fender 

and he returned with a crate of clementines, 

the tidy and sweet kind they pick at Kibbutzim south of Jerusalem.
Aug. 2008