—the mint green birthday cake we passed in slo-mo
on the lap of a man on a park bench under the shade
of a Jacaranda tree in full purple bloom. It must have been

winter, the window pane cold against my cheek
on the bus ride home. Across the aisle, a girl in pink gloves
blowing soap bubbles into the air: a hundred little rainbows

bursting against the roof, the seats, the windshield. Maybe
it was a dream—I remember reaching only in time for the sky
skipping with house swifts, the sun setting. That month

the lemon tree we planted three years ago finally gave fruit:
do you remember the thirty six yellow moons
sleeping on the kitchen counter?