Kim Monnier

(invasion by the sweet potable hardness of cider)

Kim Monnier

The fruit I picked was nothing like one from which I took the seed helixed traits unfolded pushing branches toward wilding buds

How far back into our branching did we feel the need to cut ourselves into stumps to take a favored identity like apples

slice angles across branches our pliant flesh for their green cambium mate and wax over

and call what future arrives “good”

Wandering onto soil we now call ours forgets it change upon us making us (obstinately) neglectful of the pairing of old and new

I want the sweetness in my eyes to be as intoxicating as that upon my tongue