Apple

Red, round, and for all we know
you could be a womb, for contained
inside your sweet flesh
are seeds to bear more

fruit.

It's no coincidence
the phallus-ness of your ways
the penetrating pollination and
theft of your babes
by cold ground or hungry mouths.

I

too, am guilty; a whole bag of you
sits in my refrigerator
I even oblingingly nip the skins off
for my own offspring to eat
naked fruit
then fetch from his hand
to eat after he's chewed through with your
waxy persona, skimpy skin of false self
no real protection from our teeth, our

Knives.

Is it no wonder a fantasy of mine
is to live among an apple orchard?
Miles of sweet fertility all around me
screaming Earth Mother! Earth Mother! from early spring
to late fall, the harvesting
a death to you, apple tree, Earth & Mother,
the winter your respite
the spring your great renewal
rise up from the stake
transform to Mother, bear fruit, again and again.

Hey, just got word of this cool poetry thing, unfortunately I can't make it, something called a job...maybe if you don't have one of those interfering with your life, love and writing, you could go and show some support for awesome poet Ruth Stone:
House Chamber of the Statehouse, Montpelier, 4:00 p.m. Celebration for honoring Ruth Stone as Vermont's new State Poet. Open to the public.

Here are some words just to say I am here. Head, neck, butt, aches on this hard chair. Street echoes outside my window. My finger in a partial cast really itches. I am heartbroken and fight the tears. My fiance moved out; yeah, left me. I am trying to be okay. I am trying to be. Be. Just be.