Apple Blossom
Apples blossoms soil the earth
so she has to wade into the orchard,
the tree groaning when the girl
chins herself up, swinging her leg
over the limb, nubs scratching
her waistband, until
she reaches the farthest branch
where the blossoms are—
an extravagance, apple blossom white
lip-skin pink, each petal, a corsage,
every stem and twig sweated in scent.
She’d like to have this perfume,
to revel in it, but a girl brought up
by two strong willed women
must be weak, tentative. The sugary-
smelling mixes with the manure pile
and in the farmhouse kitchen
hymns are being sung.
She climbs higher into tickling blossom,
a veil between her and How Great Thou Art.
Grandma’s voice breaks like a crack in
the ceiling when she tries to hit the high notes.
The verses come in gray waves.
If she picks the bloom what will happen
to the apple? Will it shrivel, never live?
She rubs blossom on her neck, her wrists,
floating them down her shirt.
She is dying of goodness and wishes
these blooms were wounds.