Gather your corn cockle and doll’s eyes,
the apple orchard’s angry.
She shoots her black seeds
down your throat,
eyes pierced through skin
to watch your veins suffocate.
I met her in September
when she was frail – my mistake –
I never knew of her spines, thorns,
But you knew everything of her:
and she hid in her orchard watching
the way I would swing from your branches;
how you picked fruit ripe from my body,
how every night you crossed midnight
twisted in my edible, red
while her delicious Golden
nectar kept well
for the worms.