IMPOSSIBLE PASSAGES #70 by Glen Armstrong

It is unkind to call one’s ex a “lemon,” even though lemons smell good and fit our hands perfectly.
They are textured yet smooth, sour yet sweet. They enliven life’s savory moments like a fire or a
faith. They are ridiculously yellow, and I still love them.


I still get a kick out of replacing lightbulbs and filing papers, getting things in order for a holiday
that does not exist. No one arrives with wine and dip. I still get a kick out of my favorite shirt. I
am going to stay up late and watch Logan’s Run on basic cable. I may even pop popcorn.


It is both unkind and inaccurate to call my situation “abandonment.” There is no wild side, no
recklessness, no collapsed camel to be put out of its misery. No snap. No reevaluation of the little
things, the straws that add up. Sometimes a word abandons its meaning to hide in a lemon grove.
One looks it up to find a tiny, rectangular hole.
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