Turning up our greenery, seeking flesh in
plants and insects, busily hunting us, the
bullets dug recollections: You, with dirty
fingernails, telling

me, quite proud, that finally you'd decided
lemons weren't the optimal crop for us to
grow, and that potatoes were really better
denizens, rocky

soil no good for tuberless plants. My saying
nothing that remotely resembled lemons
ever grew in there anyway, your flights and
fantasies promptly

tossed out from consideration. I thought then,
She's insane. The doctors have told me many
times that it would benefit both of us, this
hospital treatment.

Huddled now with you in the garden shelter,
lemons seemed more real and less mad than all the
treble sounds of lunatic-whining grapeshot,
stopping my worries,

swapping them for novel awareness: Near us,
hands that moved to seize us and drag us from the
place no longer sheltering, silence where the
bullets had screamed once.

Tasting citrus tang in my mouth that fear had
brought, I looked over to your face and saw no
hint of fear. Already you knew that somewhere,
somebody planted

lemons where potatoes could never grow, and
never doubted death would dispatch you there, and
greedy hunger beat out the fear you felt, then
starved to the guts, too.