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Short-changed With Apricots |
You’re not my tree.
You’re my neighbor’s.
Your branches extend over the fence
and knock on my window at nights.
When the breeze moves you,
your leaves murmur
like a skirt,
like nylons tightly wrapped around thighs,
moving through the dark in a hurry,
like someone’s climbing the fence.
I often assume it’s her,
the neighbor’s wife.
She’s knocking;
her fingernails polished,
orange, red-orange.
The wedding ring removed.
She wants to come in.
The leaves rustle again.
It’s not her.
It’s never her.
These branches offer apricots,
not sin,
but sincerity.
These branches extend from the past,
from Eden,
from the fall.
copyright 2005
Shahé
Mankerian |
