The late harvest

THE LATE HARVEST

By Jennie Hayes

When a woman can’t speak her truth

the fruit of her soul is left on the branches

growing bitter and sharp.

Later, sometimes much later,

some force might rise up in her

 and she might decide to harvest it herself.

Then she’ll have to pick it all, fruit by fruit,

and eat it, peel and pith and seed,

sour and dripping.

Even then maybe it won’t be enough.

Maybe she’ll have to do that for her mother.

And her mother’s mother.

And the mother before that.

An entire orchard of mothers.

Rinds desiccated and hardened,

fingers bleeding.

Maybe her hair will thin and her teeth wear down

and her skin wrinkle and crack.

And when all that bitter fruit is gone

there will just be trees left,

branches budding,

alive with wind.