Orchard Sour

1 November 2012

I’m collecting things
for a perfect life,
in a sparse garden
with a quiet lemon tree.

There’s an assortment of wine
corks tucked in the corner,
waiting for the elephants–
a graveyard of grapes.

During the night I grow
a polished claw-foot bath,
to scare the crows away
from the cherry twins.

With a pair of nail scissors
I trim the short grass
and carefully feed it
homemade lemonade.

Nectarine juice drips
in tracks down my arm,
the flesh fills gaps
between my crooked teeth.

Eventually I feel clean.
The sky no longer scares me,
but I still lie flat on my ribs,
bleeding blossoms.

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