My mother rented an old apple press
from some farmer out in the country.
We weren’t farmers, but we had apples.
Knobby-knuckled, gnarly old trees
with leather-hide bark. The apples,
mealy and worm infested. Soggied
brown. Each time we cranked the press,
the grinder squeaked like the boards
on a covered bridge, smashing the apples
into paste, paste into juice,
juice into giant glass jars. Me, in my
bell-bottom jeans and fragile interior,
a china cup of emotions. My sister,
with her Janis Joplin peasant shirts,
smelling of weed, and other sister
who gave us all Bibles for Christmas,
insisting we Find God. My little brother,
at twelve, who still wet the bed.
My father, berating
our pace. Goddam lazy. My mother,
shoo-ing wasps, counting bottles,
as if each new batch carried a secret
wish. Her smile palsied, unsure.
The air, smelling of vinegar and burnt sugar. Tainted fruit.