Fruit

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First 
“She’s like an apple 
in a water balloon,” 
the doctor says. They watch 

their fruit unfold across 
the screen in light movements.
Submerged beneath her sea 

enclosed by silent walls, 
slow fluid breaths inspire 
her ripening, baptize 

the room in innocence. 
Within this matrix 
of tranquility, 

they sense her beckoning 
through sound’s translucent waves,
calling from her still place 

into time’s raging sea 
for a Return. Then Light 
ripples from ’round her world 

as from the Garden tree 
whence God called to Adam
and questioned why His Seed
had grown so ripe with blood. 

Last 
Within their yellow tree 
atop a falling hill, 
still shades of spring shadow 

the waiting fruit. Chilled rains 
stagnate in micro-seas 
about their stems, throw drops 

of ripened dew across 
his face as he climbs 
upward, pulls the apples 

from their place, and drops them 
to her waiting hands below. 
Pale bruises hide beneath 

the golden skin, some from 
their gathering, some from 
tussles with rough branches 

and hungry birds, and some 
born from the inside-out 
of parasitic guile. 

Holding his breath, he cradles 
the last fruit and feels 
naked branches stealing 
the blood from his cold hand. 

Return 
The pair, fallen with years, 
returns to their garden, 
straining for shades of green

within the withered gold. 
They step, each arm in arm, 
beneath their waiting tree 

and rest against the trunk. 
His eyes pursue the land 
into a blurry field 

and hers cover his face 
in reminiscent strokes. 
She sees the sun depart 

his gaze. Dark winds carry 
the breath of swollen fruit, 
pooled round their feet. He sighs; 

she leans against his arm 
and waits with him the night 
that folds across his frame. 

Her tears swell with their fruit, 
distilling through Earth’s skin 
into the flowing blood 
of their generations’ veins.