The Orchards
by Leonore Wilson
I learned the body first
scrambling under wire
kneading the black earth
with my fists, as if
to get it right, as if I
were hoofing the furrows,
spreading the scoured seed.
Under the saplings,
under the parental trees,
near the one-room schoolhouse,
the heavy pears
of summer were plump as textbooks,
the traffic savage
and in waves; convertibles
and boats with their tops down,
teenagers shouting
like mischievous geese
everywhere.
I resolved to die to you
there under the clear sky
of my motherland.
Love was unglamorous
and quick
as you
unburied me like gold
under trunks, rolled me
from shade to sun, the dried out
ears of wheat bruised under my belly,
the stubborn foxtails, oats,
little fangs of thistles.
And afterwards
we’d eat the fruit
that had fallen as though
it were left for us; the milk-white
meat like wine.
In the orchards, I learned
god wanted us nurtured, forgiven;
he showed us there
we could have it
again
that world unbroken,
all plaint and rich
with desire.
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[box] Featured Image by Duncan George | Poem featured in the collection: Western Solstice. Now Available.[/box]