California

The lemon tree in my front yard
grew up and over my porch.
Invaded my bedroom windows
and offered fruit.

The yellow was the sun and the orbs
and everything except.

Inside the house,
I smelled my wounds like they were roses.

At night I plucked those lemons
from my second-story porch.
They were the size of a grown fist,
bloated and irate.

I avoided the sun.
Awaited nighttime.

I yanked them from the branches,
left them rotting in our yard.

The sun came colorless in the morning,
and there were afternoons both burnt and pale.
Dusk was oranges, reds, pinks, purples.