By Sarah Carleton
They wait in the fridge with sprouting garlic
and baggies of curry leaves, a season
trapped beneath their skin like a jinn.
No one eats them, yet we keep stocking up
at the grocery store and loading more fruit
into the crisper, already bruised.
Even straight from the produce shelves
these apples are not the tart crunch I once
snapped from branches at another latitude
—they’re soft and travel worn, with oval stickers
marking them as overly handled — but we buy them
anyway for the green sunburst at the stem
and the dappled red belly, which we rub shiny,
summoning the scent of an orchard in fall.
Copyright Carleton 2022