ORCHARD CHORES

by jared hayley

 

 

 

I shiver, I ache, I hear

the chain ringing, whipped through the pipe-

rail gate, and change as each pulling in

and being pulled in wearies, slows, and hangs.

​

Close all: close road, cloud, class, shop.

The last day laying down

the last light sleep, the work

is January. The lesson is January.

​

Sap drew back first from leaves,

then stems sucked themselves dry.

The future fruit absorbed by the selfish root,

the season’s blood pressing on the tourniquet.

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Soon, to you, I will be a he.

He, always an inch from speech.

He, never wanted in your whispers.

He snaps the dry, leaf-covered bone.

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The ice world, bring forth; strip

the papery bark from the trunks.

The pump complains but comes free.

For what he brings there is no mending.

​

He brings to the pail a liquid

sentence whose last word

is always choked. He leans to hear.

The word is garbled. Is it leave or cleave?

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