There are no apples left for picking,
only leaves caught up in the sunlight
and a slow breeze passing through.
Back between my molars sticks a pip
that my tongue cannot pry loose
no matter the shapes it twists,
the times it risks my bite.
A sparrow in the branches sings,
tells me there are more trees,
more apples,
but they are behind walls, and gates,
and men with bright black guns.
They tell people which trees are good,
which ones are bad.
It doesn’t matter about the apples so much,
it’s more about the hands.
You’ve peaked my curiosity about those /men with bright black guns/. I’m lost in the allegory, I guess. There is a dystopian feel to the close though, so I’m left with that.
I may be way way off on this but your poem sounds like it was written from the perspective of a non-human, like a bear? Human or no, I like the immediacy of it.
A wonderful poem. But I’m intrigued about the hands…
I like the description of the sparrow reporting where there are more apples.
Sounds like the beginning and forbidden fruit all over again!
An ominous piece, Carol, and the opening lines are atmospheric, like the opening shots of a dystopian film. I especially like the focus on the apple pip stuck between molars, with the tongue worrying at it. Is it from the last free apple before the men with bright guns took them over? And what is it with the hands? Do they cut them off if scrumpers pick them apples that hang over the walls and gates?
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I’m lost in the mystery of this one. I feel there’s a story hidden in there and I’m not getting it. It all sounds ominous. Woe is me!
Maybe the one with the orchard is the one who gets the first pich
Damn! That is quite a strong write — I think I am going to have nightmares of those hands and bright black guns. The wretched men dictate and not let one pick the apple of one’s own choice — it says all about our histories as well as our present.