Apple Tree
While the house creaks under its heat
the apples flame against the hedge.
Blackbirds note the clusters
and make experimental stabs.
All day the sun presses the apples,
transfers its red flush to their skins
and warms the ripest for the wasps.
Twin fruits are cuckoos in the nest;
tight-yoked under the sprigs
one swells and dooms the other.
Clearing the onions, we hear
the soft thud of a heartbeat.
More for the wasps we say.
They mob the bruises, tunnel in
and tumble out. Tipsy on liquor
they lie on their backs and kick
in a kind of prayer.
We leave them an apple or two.
Page(s) 13
magazine list
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- Lamport Court
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- North, The
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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