The Lemon Tree
A farmer was wandering through his orchard at harvest time, when he saw an apple hanging from one of his lemon trees.
You told me north water
was not built by virga
but from suicide of the moon.
I will do the nursing. The suckling and swallowing. He will do the singing.
Now that my pen is made of glass
I pray to write of this loud tree
and not simply fashion
Once lived a woman wrapped in a magenta skin so brilliant she glowed, but the story doesn’t start like that.
Even if he was a bull angel,
a land whale, a million tumblers of blubber,
a horned prevaricator,
it took dirty tricks to get him.
The Arbor tells us stories of a time before, when all the dead were kept in orchards that rolled endlessly, and had always been there, and people tended to them constantly in gratitude and respect for their ancestors.
Margaret Morri was the name Yoshikane Araki used when referring to an apparition who squeezed under the doorway or window mesh or rose between barrack floorboards to haunt the hot desert air above his straw mattress.