The branch is smooth. Worn from so many summers of my straddling,

shiny brown bark, thick enough but not uncomfortably so.

This is my apple tree: this is our orchard.

I wrap my legs about the knotted surface, holding myself there.

After so many humid summers, I am expert at this. The humidity

falls about me like a wet wool blanket, impossible to shake off,

my skin shiny with perspiration.

Then you! Bearing boysenberries in a basket.

Deftly you climb the tree while balancing the other in your hand

soon you sit facing me, feeding me, one by one, until my lips are ruby red.

Stick out your tongue you say; red as a strawberry.

I suck my two fingers, some comfort from childhood –

yesterday’s vestige; “What flavor?”

“Strawberry of course!” I answer, such consternation.

In my simple summer slip I am your waif, your nymph,

your damp dewy naiad; I could be fresh from the mikvah,

pure, ready for your touch. Ready…

Such simple question, cousin; Can I smell you?

Yes, I tell you. Yes.

So when you lift my simple summer slip

and you inhale my damp and freckled flesh,

I wrap my legs tighter around the branch.

I feel the smoothness there.

Feel your breath on my neck.

The boysenberries fall soundlessly to the ground.

photograph: "apple tree" by owen hartford