The apple tree and my body that grew inward.

You shouldn't eat so many apple seeds
They say 
because I eat through the core--
through the sinews-- through the marrows 
of an apple each morning before the
sun dries itself out in the sky-- broiled
tart-- baked in cinnamon and butter--
bubbles and spits sugar down on us
standing earthly bound and eating through
the cores of apples
while the snakes warm their bellies--
You will grow an apple tree inside you
They say 
because they've seen it all happen before--
Seen girls cough pollen for weeks
and weeks and weeks-- 
kneeling and trying to make themselves
small as thimbles or oven mitts
feel the fruits grow underneath their lungs--
breathe low and cautious like a mother
spit out apples the size of Jupiter's moons
in their hands each morning only to eat them
again while the snakes watch from the corner--
grow more seeds
grow more apples 
prune back the leaves 
with your ribs until you bleed
cider and butter and cinnamon blood 
broiled blackened on the sidewalk.
I asked if the tree grew from my
womb or my stomach and they said that
there were seeds in both and the apples
were red and mustard and greed and rug-burn
kneed and lipstick flowers on wrists
and your grandmother's worn golden earrings
You will learn to grow inward
They say
because that's how they teach us to survive--
close our eyes and pull the strings of
our spinal chords to turn on the lights
we've been saving underneath our clavicles--
GROW INWARDS 
Seal your lips up with needle and thread
and keep the apples for 
yourself-- leave the extras in the sky
to find themselves as more moons for Jupiter
to fashion a belt out of--
prune the tree each morning
and build book shelves
from the extra limbs-- write poetry 
about thimbles and oven mitts
and carve the skin off your womb 
to make a baking oven-- one not for
thimbles-- compose your own sun 
as an apple tart and shower in cinnamon 
and butter when it rises from the oven
each morning.
You're selfish to keep an apple tree from
     all those boys 
They say  
Because they know what apples do to 
girl bodies-- we invite the snakes to
watch us-- learn to speak only
in poetry--our apple-seed code-- talk
to the snakes and leave lipstick
stains on their scales as they slither
away with slices of our apple tarts
They say we were good bakers 
but that we should have saved more
time for thimbles and oven mitts
and less time for book shelves
You'll have to cut down the apple tree if
     you want to be a person
They say
Because it's so much nicer to use
your womb to bake cakes and your
lungs to hold up Jupiter moons
than it is to breath and give 
birth to more apples each morning--
And you know your can never stay a tree
for long-- never eat enough seeds
turn your skin into bark--
But today be an apple tree with me
let it curl out of your mouth and speak
poetry to the snakes--

Eat through the core.
Grow inward.