TW: sexual assault

His gaze appraises her meat
seems quite sweet: apple butter stirred
out of the sun in steady shade at 70 degrees
all year 'round. Undamaged, well-preserved
for his eyes, His eyes, because other
men are not visible in the vicinity.

Her eyes dance wildly away from his,
but her view doesn't matter:
the plaything he picked from an orchard
he trespassed. Her life lived
'till now to engorge, full form
for his waiting wet mouth.
She wants to run —

Want what? What want?
This brain only here
to keep the heart beating, the fruit
vibrant for ready teeth.
But the bite down will bring a wince.
She’s made sure of it, for the sweet blush
of her outward meat is a ruse.
In her bushel, she will be the bad,
and the bitter path of worms
inside the nerves shall teach him
to be a nervous wreck

beached, bleached in second-hand sun that
riverside apple trees turn golden-green
upon his pulsing pink Narcissus petal.