I started writing you a letter but it turned into a poem about god and lemons
What was the message the Mormon missionaries shared with you over cold coffee and prepackaged baked goods? What is the cosmology of a god worshipped by men who subjugate their wives? Did you tell them my god is a lemon grove in late January, enveloping me in the mellow warmth of a California winter? A lemon rolling across the soft earth, its peel as thick as leather, tawny golden flesh reminiscent of the sun within. My god is a summer of plenty. My god is rich soil under bare feet. My god is my daughters. My god is me. There are no fathers, no kings. It is just you and I and sunlight and memory.
