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.
2020
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