I wanted something. But I did not throw

The apple. It was a small fruit. The size

Of a child’s hand. Black and yellow. Riddled

With worms and misshapen. I put my teeth

To it. I took a bite. Chill flesh. Rank.

The dog kept feeding. I was not bothered

By the blood. The last of the red leaves

Scudded about me. And a few drops fell

From the dark sky. There is blood

Everywhere. The trees shed it. The sky.

There is no end. And isn’t it pretty?

We say. Isn’t it pretty? Amn’t I?

Isn’t the starving dog? Isn’t the doe,

Even half-eaten? She gave her body

To the dog. The fallen body looked

So heavy. It looked as if it weighed

Ten thousand pounds. More than the lake

Or the frozen field. The doe dreamed

Of her death and it came to pass.

She courted the hunter and he shot her.

And she fell. And then the man stood

Over her. A white shadow Laughing.

And then the dog stood over her. A black

Shadow. Laughing. And the dog came close.

The way a lover might. Had the doe

Been human. And he put his mouth to her.

As a lover might. Had he been human.

And her chastened flesh was a chalice.

And she was peaceful. And there was bliss

In this. And some horror. Around her

The thorns shone black and yellow.

And the fallen fruit lay black and yellow.

And black and yellow are the colors

Of the orchard’s hive when it masses

And the queen in a fiery constellation

Is carried to new quarters. The wind

Stirred in the orchard. The dog bit

Into the doe’s chest. And the apple

In my hand, against my lips, small,

Misshapen, the size of a child’s fist,

Full of worms, turned suddenly warm

And soft. And it was as if, on that hill,

While the dog fed and the lake lay

Frozen, I was holding in my hand,

Against my lips, not a piece of fruit,

Not a piece of bitter, half-eaten fruit,

But the still warm and almost beating

Heart of some holy being—just lifted

From the dead body. And the heart

Was heavy. And wet. And it smelled

As it would smell forever. Of myrrh.

And burning blood. And gold.

Plants Fed On by Fawns

All the flowers: the pleated leaves of the hellebore;

And the false blossom of the calla, a leaf like a petal—

The white flesh of a woman bathing—a leaf over-

Shadowing the small flowers hidden in the spadix;

And fly poison, tender little flower, whose cursed root

Pounded into a fine white powder will destroy flies.

But why kill flies? They do not trouble me. They

Are like the fruit the birds feed on. They are like

The wind in the trees, or the sap that threads all things,

The blue blood moving through branch and vine,