Issue 2



Cindy Hunter Morgan


Apple Season


The Jonathans are in,
red and gold and sweet,
streaked like the evening sky
above the orchard.

We sort them all day,
watch them roll to us
out of the water tank,
up a spongy slope,

across a squeaky gauntlet,
soundtrack of autumn.
They wobble forward
ceaselessly, 2 ¼ fancies,

2 ½ fancies, utilities, ciders,
thousands of apples we
classify, cup, and carry,
filling crates which still

smell of last year’s apples.
At night, racking pool balls
in a friend’s basement,
there is talk of pizza,

but I hardly listen.
I am still grading apples,
every ball a fruit
I must not bruise.