The Orchard
Where has all the windfall gone?
she asks in my recurring dream.
I lead her by the arm. Her gown,
lined in a bronze light, glides above
the lawn. Her feet are wet with dew.
I want to answer with the truth,
but know that she is hungry — and
afraid. Instead, I clench my teeth.
She’s forgotten the fruit’s name,
and thinks that I’m my father — last
of her two sons and daughter. Time
is relative among these trees
that stretch as far as we can see,
smoldering like Eden in the sun.
Before I wake, she asks again,
Where has all the windfall gone?
Ink
Is there a canvas crueler than the body?
The ink is permanent. The skin is not.
I have no patience for the lover’s gaudy
heart — swollen, pierced — a hackneyed blot
beating against the odds. I’ve seen them all:
straddled by seraphim, or torn apart —
on women, men, the lesser parlor’s wall —
hallmarked MOM
, or skewered by a dart
from Cupid’s quiver.
But enough of love.
I work in monochrome. I deal in skulls.
Behind each piece, a brief, familiar story.
It ends in bones — the sort of plot that dulls
the point. My needle’s steadiest above
a stinging script that reads:
Memento Mori.
Redwood City attorney sues ‘First Amendment auditors’ after Menlo Park disputeApril 2, 2026 11:31 am
