After Eva Hesse’s Tomorrow’s Apples

by Kelly R. Samuels

Still sometimes. To the orchard on the ridge. 
We would braid each other’s hair on the ride there – the lurch
and wheeze of the bus making hard work of it. Turn just a bit
more and try and hold still.
The trees all in rows, neat and tidy, made us uneasy.
And, too, the minding of where to step – the one rotten apple
in the shade with the bees feasting. Even the sweet smell seemed
unseemly, too much of.
We were told only the human hand was trusted, all the ladders
steepled. Saw the face of one and then another, there, among 
the branches. More their soles and just their legs, as if  
mythical creatures – that girl turning into a tree. 

Some dipped in caramel.
Some cut and plain, browning.

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