Crab Apple Tree of Knowledge

They lined the yard,
orbs of green flesh
speckled with dirt and sun.

“Watch out for the crab apples,”
my dad shouted.
“You’ll twist an ankle, steppin’ wrong,”
the call of summer.

One day I was brave,
deciding to try the fruit
our feet avoided,
the skin a rough warning.

Foolishness and my father’s absence
found me lifting the illicit,
placing it to my lips,
and ignoring the ant traveling
from flesh to flesh.

Dirt on fingertips means little
when your tongue is revolting
against you in the name
of green bitterness.

Grass littered with unsatisfying
fruit fills my eye as juice
slides down my chin in trails
of childhood disobedience.

They lined the yard,
orbs of green flesh
speckled with sour promises.

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