Filching Apples from Wallingford’s

I asked, and he pulled the truck up
beside the orchard, so I could wade
through thigh-deep grass to choose
two perfect apples.

They were McCouns, clean and sound,
a soft blush on their sloping shoulders,
resting roundly in my cupped hands
as I struggled back to the road.

I was a girl, impetuous, with little notion
of my own power. When he took the apple
I offered, neither of us realized he was saying
yes to me then, yes to me now, yes
to every forbidden thing.


This poem was originally published in Trees in Our Dooryards, Redbird Chapbooks.



About the Poet:
Sonja Johanson has recent work appearing in the Best American Poetry blog, BOAAT,  Epiphany,  and The Writer’s Almanac.  She is a contributing editor at the Found Poetry Review, and the author of Impossible Dovetail (IDES, Silver Birch Press), all those ragged scars (Choose the Sword Press), and Trees in Our Dooryards (Redbird Chapbooks).  Sonja divides her time between work in Massachusetts and her home in the mountains of western Maine. You can follow her work at .


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