orchard

that was the year the apple trees grew bones.
femurs & skulls & teeth. we all talked about apples
like a past-tense god. i ate my own hair one night
because it smelled like jonagold. my first job
was working at the orchard. i was surrounded 
my men with hairy arms who did not pack lunch.
instead, they reached & tore off the fruit 
like they were trying to find air to breathe.
i was not always the slowest picker. usually, 
i was middle of the pack. their skin dried my skin.
some night i worried i was turning into an apple.
i would run my thumb across my face & worry
about worms & rot. the orchard is endless it will
start to become your everywhere. i would wake up
& walk through an orchard to school & into 
an orchard in my bedroom. there were orchards
of dead birds & orchards of beer bottles.
the sound of wind through branches. always something
to collect. fill the basket or the crate. i loved most
to eat as i worked. apple juice on my chin.
i am not sure if i was the first one to notice 
the bones but i felt like i was the only one.
gone picking just to find fingers & vertebrae.
the men kept working though. they picked
& picked. i told them, "don't you see the bones?"
they did not speak as usual. they were just trying
to find a life with their hands. crates & crates
of bones. even the boss man pretended like
he didn't see them. he nodded at our harvest.
carted our labor off to the farmer's markets.
i wept in my bedroom after that shift.
i went to the bathroom & looked at my face
in the mirror. did he grab me or did he not?
why do i not trust my memory? i worried
that the bones were all my bones. so many 
of my bones. had they watched? 
i never went back to the orchard. slowly,
the trees receded. i still see them though.
sometimes they bear apples. other times 
there is a full skeleton dangling from a branch.
& at my core i am a harvester. i always climb 
the branches. i always pick them clean.