This morning, reading a story about a friend who has an ancient
lemon tree, I returned to a poem I wrote long ago, a story told me, of memory,
of lonliness, and so I post, in love.


Small Exile

Fingers of cold rain
click across the window
curtains shudder
“My sheets are clean and winter apples
are sweet—they let me have one yesterday.
I liked it.
Tony would have liked it too. Tony
is my brother—I thought
you knew.
We used to play together
on the street beside the shop.

Lemons are sweet when almost ripe enough to fall.
My sisters have black hair. Mary is taller than me.
Rose is the biggest one.
My dad laughs a lot
tells jokes to men
who come for haircuts.
but I can’t see his face or John’s.
John is my other brother. He slept with me.
If they forget to turn off the light
you can stay with me.”
The soft shadow of the lemon tree
spreads across his window

Gram's Day

I spend the morning without excuse
being lazy
a lay-abed
reading a book that has no special meaning

I did, however, make excuse
my inner parts
were mumbling
and the hot water bottle feels good

Like a small child
that does not want to go to school
I cuddled back
waiting
for sympathy

Knowing I deserved
nothing

Today
I cannot write
the poem, a mist over water
drifted
at dawn across the ocean's width
and, reaching edge,
sank
into morning.