COUNTERPART

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,
and thistles.

But you knew everything of her:
her laughter,
her sentiment,
her tears….
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
nightshade

while her delicious Golden
nectar kept well
for the worms.