lemon tree in my closet 

i admit i am a hoarder but only
of small portals of light which i need
to survive the day. tree first grew
when one day i caught a sun beam
with a butterfly net. i fed her pads of butter
until she was content. this was one week
when you were working all day & night 
& i wondered if your body had become
a shovel. still, in between i came to kiss you.
turned you briefly into dough.
olive oil on my hands. how badly i wanted
to be a body again. i returned to the beam.
it had taken root. cracks in the floor boards.
upstairs, the neighbors yelled at one another.
instead the closet through all i could hear
was the sound of yellow. the tree was
drinking every freckle of delight.
swelling. one single lemon. wild & bright.
i wanted to pluck it & bite down to feel
the sting but i waited until there were
dozens of lemons. the branches reached 
the ceiling. ached to emerge. i put my finger
to my lips & said, "you cannot leave here.
you are mine." i know i should not try
to own the fruit of light but i am scared.
people are always accidentally walking
into a car accident or tragic bed.
something must be sacred still. for me,
it is my lemon tree. my rapunzel.
still, i bring the tree butter. 
when she's ion the mood & we're all alone
she speaks with your oldest voice, saying,
"i am coming back." i weep to water her.
my beam of light. bite into the bitter rind.
light pouring from my eyes & then gone.