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AR #61 Cover
number 62

by Stephanie Lovegrove

Speaking of Apples

Though our bodies may
have settled like dust
into the corners of this new place,
the language still clogs—
pebbles in our mouths.
The drawl dribbles
like molasses
from the corners of their lips,
but it’s thick like sap on mine.
Instead, my Os sink deep, Midwestern
in my throat, and though the
dips of these voices are sea-
level, the peaks of
my inflections are
above the tree line.

And so I have sucked
in this air the way the valley
pulls in ocean breeze to wet
the orchard near our house.
There, I have learned
the babelization of
apples. The Crispin’s eponymous
texture, the Pippin’s bitter jargon,
the frost-sweetened glossary
of the Pink Lady.

Perhaps a bite will loosen
our lips, fit our mouths around
this strange argot, express
the slang of god and devil.
Perhaps their skins will speak
a potion with this angle
of sun, and the juices drawn
up from this soil will let
down from our tongues
the roots we seek
to ground us.

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