Seeds

(A new version of Reconcile)

Once, we planted lemon seeds by the sea.

Shoulders brushing, we loosened the fresh soil

in the pale morning light. Inside, the steam

from our cinnamon bread clouded

the window. But we only thought

of the salty air and the seeds,

 so cold and light in our palms.

We didn’t know then how bitterness

could grow to taste so sweet.

For months we still filled our cupboards

with jam jars and painted the sea together,

melting its sunsets into our canvas,

taming its lion waves in our frame.

But at night, locked in your warmth,

I thought of the buds outside, yellowing.

We sliced the first lemons, clean inside

as the sun at its birth. The first bite hurt,

so we covered them in sugar.

That’s when we saw our painting,

turned so still and sepia.

So we let our brushes rust.

Then it came, that storm vomit.

Our lips cracked, our tongues stung

you did, you are, how could you, I hate that you—

and our sea darkened to ashen purple.

 Rain screamed, shutters flew.

Our painting tilted, the jam jars rattled,

the roof unhinged.

The lemon trees stayed.

We stopped to breathe. I studied you,

your frame outlined in the blinking of a lamp.

I used to trace your soul.

You watched me too, me dripping and wheezing.

Your eyes softened.

We knew what to do.

We smashed them under our feet,

slicing and spraying their sour flesh.

Then we tossed them into the sea.