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.