Lantern Review: A Journal of Asian American Poetry
Issue 4 | Winter 2012
I see skin
in each apple tree, jagged like a tomato knife, the reflection of ___________ apples don't shine on branches, only in supermarkets. I see arms beaten into the shaft of bark—I see dogs hanging upside down from scraggy deadwood—I see legs suffocate underground—I see stones around me like a wall—stones never make anything grow. Inside my masonry I recite the farmhand's song and believe apple farming will make me a farmer.