CW: death

a. the packing - berry ;

            my mother is a fifteen-year-old girl packing her dreams 

into tight-lipped moving boxes, her skin molding at the touch of cardboard and singeing at the sensation of masking tape ;

            my grandmother’s marmalade saliva drips into the box 

and works as an extra sealant. her body is fall-off-the-bone goodness and sweeter than the apples she makes my mother crush with her feet for applesauce ; 

             i lay in their arms, my legs coated with pollen and my hands

stretched out and desperate for scraps of love and the tree sap dripping off their dead-ends. my stomach aches. they lay me gently in the biggest box. 

b. the moving - mama ;

            my sweet daughter is like the pomegranate. six seeds, six seeds, six seeds-

so much packed into such a tiny body. her body is covered in mulberry bruises 

            and she flinches from my touch. her tears roll down our body 

and coat us in a slick film. our protective layer. my sweet girl. 

            womanly. i, and my little woman, against the world. my sweet berry. 

she dips her head under the water. the soap covers her small body. I see her shiver. Goosebumps. Poor baby. 

            the water basin is full of apples. golden delicious. my mother fell and broke her 

arm picking them. Her hospital bed is big enough for both

of us to lay in. we weep together. Her tears are no longer opaque enough for armor. six seeds, six seeds, six seeds-

c. the resting - grandmama ;

            i was never a big fan of applesauce.

Two tablespoons of it with a single porkchop,

            My husband's sauerkraut, my baby boy’s AR ammunition, the hair my daughter chopped off, and my son’s fatal gunshot wounds.

i wince as i slip my sneakers on and step into the metal 

           Washing basin filled with rotted apples. my legs still scream in pain from the lack of use

weeks in a stiff bed. my little one and her berry throw the worst

of the rot at each other, giggling and slipping. 

            our shared ivory skin is wearing away. more and more like fruit leather

every time i breathe in. our shared garden has 

wormed its way into its next little girl to feed off of. We are all packed into each other like russian nesting dolls, we breathe in unison, 

our feet all ache and covered in scars and blood and bruises. my apple. my berry.