Women & Fruit
The men have spent days on their fine yellow
machines, harvesting, calling to children
to toss in those fallen apples and scarified pears.
Each peach reflects a shiny dollar.
Women wave aprons, chant as they march
on the kitchen. Their hair is tied in flags
of bright service. They are not sure of who they are
but they smell the fruit
and know it must be ladled into Ball jars,
or spooned in crusts they roll and crimp, or those tricky
Danish pastries with their butter-brushed layers.
They will fill the pantry.
Some women make pies, others make mischief.
When the fruit turns bad, do they hide their every knife?
Knives can scoop an eye out,
scalp a curly head, bring relief to migraine.
And the women love the shiny blades,
black mother-of-pearl handles, have carved their initials
in all the door lintels with the tips. Every woman
needs something she can call her own.
First Published in Spire
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