Tropic to Bryce, then south to Hatch.
Driving State Route 89. The freckled
blur of cottonwoods, old trucks,
weathered swing sets as we
exceed the limit through Glendale.
So many miles we’ve traveled
these past few years—the car
must have stolen our souls by now.
I’ve learned to pack light. Water,
map, flashlight, an apple. Always
just one to share. Middle
of nowhere: a Pink Lady,
Braeburn, Gala.
Do you mind that I always
take the first bite? Someone
said I’m a wife establishing territory,
but no, I’m just opening
the red hallelujah door, showing you
where to put your mouth.
Tongue, teeth, lips—we invent
the sounds of ripe, crisp happiness, the
apple passed back and forth, the
restless juice wetting our fingertips.
I take a big bite, then you take
bigger, and when I look closely (my turn),
there’s the curved stairstep signature
of your teeth in moon-colored
fruit flesh.
Husband, we take it
to the core, past the always
disorderly Orderville, past Mount Carmel,
though still miles from Zion, leaving
only stem and five small
seeds—dark talismans
from this wild orchard
called love.
