We pluck resinous peaches
staring like camel eyes from baskets.
I admire each fragile sky, each tight
map of the cloth that sweet-scarves your teeth.
My brother smells the dark hurricane
of apples hopscotched with holes, their scabs swinging
like cat doors. The man behind the tables
knows, and he tells us
the truth: the thin
stains that sit on apple skin
like tea swung from it’s cup
are luckmarks, kisses from hail
that shivers from the sky when we sleep, when ditch dark
has lulled into idleness and the trees
have never seemed more living.
I can see the words
stir dawn on my brother’s face.
He believes in farming
harder than fairies. He will take an apple from the bag to hold,
hoping the luck
sinks into his hand. It will be the only apple
anyone eats after the rest are crushed into foam,
as the car bounces, driving home.