Sarah Louise Garrido

Revealing what’s been waited for,

the sun announces itself.

Bold herald plastered

on gray buildings, splashed

over solemn pines.

The sun rises.

And there you are,

in a garden, looking right at me.

Robins pose the question

I can’t answer.

Lemons growing soft on a counter.

You brought them inside,

arms flecked with pricks

because of it. Winter moss

clings to your coat.

I touch the fruit, the cheery

flesh concealing sharpness.

I touch the fruit,

and weeks have passed.

A friend came for a visit, the baby cried.

I hear your words like drops in a pool:

where are you. It’s impossible to tell

you that I’m inside this picture

of my life, lemons on a counter,

a color I remember from before

but the only word I have is yellow.

The robins skirt across the sky

pulling time behind, your face

through the glass, glass inside and out,

how many times you have brought lemons

I can’t recall.