Sydney Kiker
The walls are piss yellow,
pretty as puke you vomited
on the floor at 6 am,
turning the room sour
with stomach acid. While I bleached
and scrubbed, you sat staring
at leaves whirling
gold in the breeze. Your
onion skin is peeling
papery and I recall
once smooth brown
hands that dug deep
into the earth,
cradling summer squash.
You say: when the sun streams
through the window like that,
the room is
almost yellow
like honeycomb, daffodils,
autumn leaves…
—like lemonade
we made years ago
in glass mason jars,
slicing lemon after lemon,
then stirring.
