by Colette Parris

First, eschew the juicer.

Squeeze the lemons with bare hands
let the brightness coat your fingers
and burn through
your many abrasions
watch the steady rivulets
pummel the indifferent mason jar.

Next, add water – not tap
spring for the swanky kind
that comes in tinted bottles
and smells like a ski town
you’ve never been to;
hard purity that further tightens
your already aching throat.

Then, pour in the sweetness
no half-hearted dribbles of simple syrup
no tearing of substitute pastel packets
act like you’re from the South (which you are
not)
toss in spoonful after spoonful
of pure white sand
until there can be no doubt.

Cover.
Shake.
Uncover.
Do not wait for ice.

Raise the rim
to your furiously parted lips
invite an overwhelming
embrace
the momentary seizure
and tell yourself that this too
shall pass.

Savor.
Swallow.
Repeat.