Apples
April, 2020

Small

tart

twisted

no two alike

grown in

nature’s vault

above mountains

where two-toed

goats crush between

mortar and pestle

teeth the fallen fruit.

Juice slides

down their

beards.

 

Often I walk

down our steep street

on broken pavement

and sand abandoned by

each rain rushing

toward another curvy

rendezvous.

 

At the corner I

gaze up, away to lines

of jagged mountains

with trees indistinguishable

from clouds and goats not

visible at all. Maybe

there are no goats.

 

Maybe  abuelas

find apples untouched

on low branches or

worm-ridden cast

upon untrammeled ground.

The abuelas eat knowingly

crushing clean white fruit

between their short white

teeth. Tart juice slides

down wrinkled

necks. They spit the skin.

 

The peaks resemble

kindergarten drawings

of clouds with vertical

lines of rain catapulting

down.

I watch the rain.

I step on sand.

I bite the apples

small

twisted

no two alike.

 

About those goats -

their nimble

two-toed feet, slim ankles

hooves worn flat-

kids and mothers.

I buy their cheese

spiced and white as teeth

biting my tongue.

A child assists

her abuela tending,

while they climb

unscaleable mountains.