Lemons

In the cracked, dry earth of Southern California
I sprouted roots and branches,
a living, vertical palindrome
that bears yellow fruit.

Only this fruit is more bitter,
no sour pucker but a hiss
and tightening of the jaw.

My arms are laden. Come. Pluck
one and sweeten its flesh
with honey.

You can taste the origins. Notes
of a childhood bully,
hints of a church upbringing.

And the nose, ah, so many buried,
including a father.

Fathers yield the strongest undercurrents, you know,
followed only by current events and missed connections.