Farmer’s Marker

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.


6 thoughts on “Farmer’s Marker

  1. “staring like camel eyes from baskets.” Makes me think of buying fresh fish at the market.
    Or Ice cubes with eyeballs in them at a Halloween party…

    I like your ‘Lucky apples” too.

    Thanks for stopping by ~ I’m not always current on return visits. Take care of yourself. 🙂

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