Bergmann, F. J.:”Noon Blue Apples”

In the morning we rose uneasily, when
the sun was a panther’s eye slitted gold,
in a sky spotted with clouds. Someone like
a milkman had left us four tetrahedral
cartons filled with an unattractive purple
fluid. We called fish from the river to swim
upstream through the plumbing and into
our sink. We fried them in goose-fat, breaded
in fine dust left over from the drug trade–
less nutritious than we would have liked.
We dawdled over the dishes, carefully broke
shards into ever-smaller fragments, until
time constraints unceremoniously flung us
into the garden. The hole we dug the night
before had filled itself with small black birds,
not all of them dead. I dropped in the seed
I held close to my heart in its red silk pouch.
We drank sparkling wine until we were able
to urinate profusely on the planted seed.
Eventually we watered it with the purple milk
as well. Night fell and it had done nothing
miraculous, but at moonrise a sprout pushed
through the stinking feathers. By midnight
it was a tree taller than any of us. The ground
was strewn with disappointed petals. Before
dawn there were pink peaches ripening,
followed by orange pears; at noon, blue apples.