When I was twelve, freckles 
galloped across the bridge 

of my nose, new spots 
appearing each summer. 

They’ll fade, you’ll see, 
everyone said, but not 

believing them, I’d sneak 
into the kitchen, peer 

inside the refrigerator 
to look for a lemon tucked 

under the lettuce in the bin below. 
Then with knife in hand, 

I’d creep upstairs, hoping 
no one was in the bathroom. 

The blade sliding beneath the peel 
released a pungent spray from the pulp 

I rubbed on my cheeks and nose, 
blinking back tears. Now I wish I still had 

those freckles instead of the ones 
covering my arms and hands, 

and I prefer my lemon 
on lobster or in tea. 

Bio: Susan Thanas