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apples
gillian clarke
they fill with heat, dewfall, a night of rain.
in a week they have reddened, the seed gone black
in each star-heart. soft thud of fruit
in the deepening heat of the day.
out of the delicate 1 of secret skin
and that irreversible moment when the fruit set,
such a hard harvest, so cold and sharp on the tongue.
they look up from the grass, too many to save.
a lapful of windfalls with worms in their hearts,
under my thumb the pulse of original sin,
flesh going brown as the skin curls over my knife.
i drown them in water and wine, pushing them under,
then breathe apples simmering in sugar and spice,
fermenting under the tree in sacs of juice
so 2 they'd burst under a wasp's foot.
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