MATTHEW COOPERMAN
APPLES
Dried husks I found
in my grandfather’s pockets,
coral lips, one in each
sleeve, the man split
between seed and death’s
dried leaf. He knew
the terrain of lost trees,
orchards strung in rain
after, lands a gash
return in heather. Wind blows
a sweetness across the plains
and a child burns
in the still closet air.
He knew the red finger
of rivers, knife
to the neck of the vanishing
woods, words
a phoenix fruit, this fire.
Tunnels of noon, a latticed sky
overgrown, the prick
and thrill of blackberry
spilling its blood, your blood
and the compact
space it required
tasting green. For the first
time in the thicket is
then the rest, dye’s echo.
All this for a course
in water’s toil, its wend
to the bay
in the warm bed
of the creek. If snow
could fill this world
it would bleed
a dusty bloom, pollen
on the leaves
shivered skin.
