Banana Apples

We picked apples and tasted a few—
banana apples the color of October sunshine.
I held the ladder,
he climbed.

We chased the calf to the far pasture,
gathered the last Black-eyed Susans in sweaty bunches
for my mother,
played ghost through new-washed sheets.

I loved that hard-browned boy,
so when she said “Smile for the camera,”
I was already smiling, had my arm
already round his neck—
not caring that his overall strap was pinned
and my panties were showing.

Though the tree fell many years ago
and the calf and the pasture
only bright pictures on a dark page,
how to forget the sweetness
that came before the tart?

-Carol Brockfield
Women Writers, June 2009


About Carol Foreman Brockfield

Poet in Medford, Oregon
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