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.