Meghana Mysore


I awaken in a glass jar of lemons,
the one my mother uses for decoration. 

The yellow fruit stains my skin
with sour juice, soaks my lips in citrus. 

To be a decoration is to be lonely,
to tap on glass walls knowing

you can't be heard. My mother
throws a party at our house today

and the neighbors are here. 
They see the glass jar at the center of the table. 

What a beautiful jar of voices, they say.  
What a glorious decoration.

I wonder if they know I'm here, if they can tell
the lid is closed or that my voice

shrivels with time, lips now yellow
and spotted in brown.

Mother notices the decay and replaces
the old lemons with new, fresh ones.

She sets the jar at the center of the table
so the neighbors can marvel in their beauty. 

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