Sun-boiled Macintosh girl.

I've left my skin out under the trees--
scavenged by the bees who know that
they all will die in October. They 
trick-or-treat for the rot-flesh--
open wounds where I wanted to 
grow myself into a pie--
caramel glaze down my forehead--
wet-leaf and twig-knuckled bed to rest  
these limbs that peel like clementine 
skin. There was always too many of
us to be eaten. Too many stems--
too many skinny legs trying to be
pretzels-- trying to be the sticks
of caramel apples-- drip-dropping in 
the grass-- too many bright red 
cheeks on greeny Macintosh faces-- 
My mother was a Mutzu and I was a Macintosh
and we snapped and Winesap-ed
until we felt golden and delicious.
We wore sweaters and took them off 
in the sun. We were still the kind of
cold that only October knows for
boiling bodies-- melting-- shifting sauce-- 
into the frost morning. Where did all the apples
go? There were too many for pies and never
enough for all the caramel in the silver pot--
dumped into the yard so that the bees
could at least die fat and tired
and slow. Last supper of the hornet--
And the bees knit sweats
and danced over apples with me and I aspired
to be something other than a pie--
Pink lady thigh and Jonnagold-hipped is where
autumn nudged me-- pulled the corn
husks up to my ankles-- my socks--
leaf crumple knees-- told me that
it's HARVEST-HARVEST for our bodies-- our
skin-- sun broil-- char-- freckle fired--
because there's always too many apples
and too much of my Macintosh boiled skin.
Did I remember to say goodbye to all the
bees-- mouths full of sugar and waiting
for sleep-- angry in the sun 
over our bodies that will never 
become pies-- cross-hatched blanketed 
cinnamon crusted shoulders--
rest with me and don't forget the 
Macintosh girl-body that melted
into the leaves-- never November
was there an apple left. Did you dance
like a bee or gala-braeburned and seeded 
into the frost lick soil.
We can sleep here under the ghost hum
of the bees-- make peace and cool
until we can open our eyes as seeds. 
Macintosh mother-- Jonnagold hips 
I sweet sing-- I cinnamon shoulder
I grow in October-- I sting--