I look at reflections through a plate;
this is what it’s come down to
for not having stepped out since
their gardens aren’t for chaste
lemons; plants on this turf have not
seen weightless days under the sun.
The sky hangs them like unfallen
rain waiting to be picked,
nights scrape their faces for zest
never getting to the whites
of their skins, cutting a blade
too deep for bitterness to overflow,
remembering the surface is sweeter
in a cage of sugar nests, and also
because lemons mix well with water.
I know where I belong
on a plate like a tiny cut
cube of jelly
submerged in glucose—
bland, translucent and tasteless—
the safer way to be on a dessert
plate of a ravenous jaw.