We picked crab apples that October
in Logan—the tree loaded, growing
in the back yard. Baked two tart pies.
Visiting an old navy buddy—you could
move here, he said. We could make room
in our basement—
I’m not Mormon, nor likely to be,
I answered. My friend nodded.
But the town still pulls at me—
forty six years later. Forty six years,
forty days and nights, an hour—
holding one’s breath for a minute.
I live where I do, though I’m not Baptist,
nor likely to be. A simple declarative—
You pretend to be so bad, my grandmother
often told me, my uncle, my cousins—a mantra
of sorts. Do we not all pretend,
I might have said, but shrugged it off—
We once picked crab apples and made
pies from them, I offer instead.
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