Gnarled by Katherine Carlman

scent from fallen apples: heady and sweet
wafted an open invitation, but this fruit,
like that in the first garden, was

diseased, never sprayed, insect
infested, contorted into strange shapes,
speckled with bad spots and rust;

these apples dropped the way they grew,
messy, without regard for order
Do not eat them; John does not spray.

even in spring, newborn and full of hope,
not yet marred, still tiny and perfect,
the same warning was delivered

with blossoms pure and white, pink hinting,
fruit grew green, firm; temptation lurked
yet, like every year, the fruit fell, spoiled

uneaten, wasted; worms, ants, and honeybees
imbibed nectar late in autumn on afternoons
so warm they should’ve been called summertime



Katherine Carlman lives in California with her family and spends an inordinate amount of time commuting on the PCH. Her poetry has been published by Adelaide Literary Review, Wilderness House, and Inciting Sparks, among other publications. Her play, The Sixth Station, is published by Samuel French.