Apricots

I remember Los Angeles dust
where I picked fallen apricots up,
brushed the dust off
and sucked out the pulp.

The drops we canned, already overripe,
lost shape
and turned to mush,
a slush so sweet I could spoon it.
I was, I later learned,
greedy for love.

It is now too late
to kneel again in dust, given the lust
attached to highways and money  
paving over orchards and farms
in that fertile valley.

Now apricots sold in the stores
are shipped there green
from—Would you believe?—South America,
so that all the sweetness
is lost.

The image I keep is clearly an image of
breasts: soft, warm and dusty,
and oh, so plump
and sweet when held in the hand and sucked:
overripe,
but meeting a need.

I don’t forget, can’t accept,
and will not never, never forgive
the rape of these lovely trees
for money.
Apricots taught a lesson
I have not forgotten.