fruit of labour
I am going to be a good apple!
I am going to make the bad soil
worth its salt and space
and grace my farmer's bended spine.
My red will be redder
than rope-burnt palms
and my bright will be brighter
than forgone stars. My farmer
will want for nothing,
not wheat nor rye—
by harvest’s end, thyme
may be all she lacks.
I am going to be jam and cider,
tart and pie, I am going to sweeten
the creasing years. But
I cannot unfurrow field nor brow,
cannot rid my core of bitter debts.
My farmer
in my heart of hearts
has never tended an apple tree,
sits under magnolia blossoms.