Fruit picking
We take the back roads, point out the windows at reds
and yellows, the arch of autumn guiding us
to the orchard. Let’s buy a bag at the store, pretend
we drove the hour — but no, you say, it’s just
not the same. So we go, get a half peck
bag and wander the hills and fields, get lost
questing for Fuji and Gala, and I subject
us all to a day’s worth of gay-la jokes. Soft
and steady, we are not. We knock a ton
of fruit loose, take down whole branches to grab
the biggest and the best. I hoist you up to hunt
higher and the kids nearby stop to cheer, clap
for us, for this tower of two clumsy gay men.
Us here, like this: I’m glad we didn’t pretend.
Editor’s note: if viewing this poem on a mobile browser, turn the phone sideways.
Jake Phillips is a current poetry MFA candidate and creative writing instructor at the University of Massachusetts Boston. His work has previously been published in Writers Resist, Response: A Journal for New Work, and Poetry Online and is forthcoming in Write on the DOT Volume 6.
