Theory of Gravity: Poem for Two Voices

So I make another fall's pilgrimage
up Steady Lane to pick apples
from trees gone wild,
     "Be wary," they tell us,
      "of everything,
stand inside the skirt of branches bending
toward the comfort of ground,
     but don't be afraid.
hair tickled by leaves,
eyes by dappled light,
then wobble home,
     Carry on with
pockets bulging
     your ordinary lives."
with contraband.

     Tell me again,
As I lean against one gnarled trunk,
      if all things attract,
     why can't I feel the earth
listening to Newton's genius
     rise up to meet
     each loosed apple,
whacking, bouncing in the dirt
around me,
     each fluttering leaf?
I would fling these lumpy
sweet balls up, impossible
rockets riding the jetstream
      Returning
to float down on a village
outside Mazar-e-Sharif
     to my unknown sister
among the yellow food tins
     the gift of succulence,
and yellow cluster bombs
     which came by donkey
     and camel
from the bellies of planes,
     and caravels
from my land to hers.
      from her land to mine.

So she leaves the mud brick house,
without father or brother or uncle
to escort her, shoeless,
up the corrugated road,
     Her dusty hillsides
     forgetting the color
and breathes in the orchard's tang
     of green and red,
mixed with cold blue air
     and her leaders
     forgetting
before the trees even round the bend,
      how enthusiasm once meant
seeing the unpruned suckers
spike straight off each crown,
      to be filled with God.
as if they can't get enough
height or air.

Reaching one slender arm
from the burqqa shroud,
     Rounded up tomorrow
      with other women and girls,
today she cups pleasure
      trucked
as it surrenders its petiole,
      to a public stadium,
sliding into the arc of her palm,
the folds of her skirt.
      where restless crowds
Laughing, singing songs
     of boy-men
to herself, she listens to
     hurling rocks,
glossy skin
     break
give way under teeth,
     every bone
white flesh
      in her body.
under tongue.

-Susan Middleton

Nov. 2001