Last Night My Mother Stole Lemons from the Neighbor's Tree
Lauren Davis

Last Night My Mother Stole Lemons from the Neighbor's Tree

which is to say, she was drunk, and the fruit went uneaten.
She raised me up a good girl. I only had the slightest lisp.

When a mother feels unfed, she swallows all.
Except for the lemons, and the leather, and her own tongue.

Lemons glow in the dark when there’s enough
of the moon’s face. Lemons taste best

freshly cut with a clean blade.

Lauren Davis

is the author of Home Beneath the Church (Fernwood Press) and the chapbooks Each Wild Thing’s Consent (Poetry Wolf Press) and The Missing Ones (Winter Texts). She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars and teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe. Her work has appeared in such publications as Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, and Ninth Letter.