Orchard

It’s fall, season of the apple—iconic

fruit of this America, mounds of excess

littering the grounds of orchards

from want of migrant hands to pick

the harvest clean: their red the banner

of every girl or woman who tips her head up

to the knowledge of her power—which means

she can see the way things work in the world,

and chooses not to be shamed any longer

for calling it. For what did the hissing

in the leaves tell her that she didn’t

already know, or the laughter behind

closed doors when she ran, groping

her way out? Don’t pretend you don’t

know what I want, said every snake

in the grass. Survival means no one

dies, but someone is forced to take

the fall: the smallest bird, the lowest

fruit—though the fruit isn’t to blame

for its sheen, nor the star for marking

the place where its light was last seen.