I am ******* on a lemon,
he lost his sour decades ago –

the pulpy, lampshade grind gathers
in the rings of my throat,
and burning like an enemy-girl.

She, with her knives and languages
learned afresh, just for a pit:
there are none left in my lemon,
he has become so dry
in her memory too, a four year cave.

Fear that he may vanish,
and upon his last chance: nine.
The lives I let spill in my mouth &

deaths I take responsibility for,
****** the eight, his skin and bones.

She comes wielding pillow cases,
for the brain I have swallowed,
and soon he is a carcass,
better arid than shriveling in water,
my lemon rather than a prune.

I gave her a go, and now I must leave
or else I cannot save him by me,
no lemonade to drink.