An apple rotting, shut away too long,
not a bite missing.

Did you know,
appleseeds can’t actually
produce
trees?

No, you have to cut a branch off,
plant that in the soil.

Soil’s ancestry
leading back  to
bleached bones
left out in the scorching sun.

The grass grows taller there,
with ancient hymns
cooing each blade
all the taller still.  

Yes, the grass grows taller there,
but my stomach
is full of stones.
Leaving pilgrims starving,
nothing left to crop.
Tobacco fields replace
valleys of grass.

The day my father
tried to kidnap us,
there was breakfast waiting downstairs.
I tried to eat an apple, but
stones already filled my stomach.