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Apple Cider
Breezy with bees, apple pulp rises under the grinder, shreds of flesh and skin glistening, the amber liquid dripping into the tin acidic bucket. September. Last month your grandmother was murdered by some incidental drifter who cracked her in his arms until her poor heart burst. It is as if every death is the first death: my father red with bedsores; our daughter swollen bright beyond us. Can God want such a harvest? Memory squeezes us dry beyond sweetness, beyond weeping, our twisted expressions turning pulp into the compost for the long winter ahead. We lift our cup of sorrows, burn our taciturn tongues, and then this wild embracing, as the bees go on about their business making threats and honey.