Crabapples
            for my grandfather

Nubuck hands and grease-stained overalls, he rasps
ahead pressing elfin seeds into the loam.

We are twin gardeners, matching denim,
summer heat-chafed calves.

Baby Doll, he calls to me, lingering
under the crabapples centered in the half-acre plot.

He reaches overhead to pluck a palm-sized fruit, pulls
a buck knife from his chest pocket, shines

the calico skin on his pants, quarters
it so taut pulp sweats under the sun.

I cheek the wedges, listen
for crisp mastication, for succulent life.

Baby Doll, he says to me, stretching out
under the tree and presenting another.

We are twin gluttons, matching juice-lipped smiles,
our bellies sour-cramped with bends.

We come up for air too fast for our bodies,
but our parched throats delight in the spoils.