fertile detergent; worshipping apples

says fruit is white, is crisp,
like downy dryer sheets
(but we know the taste
of dehydrated laundry –
starched stiff towels –
is as hard to stomach
as skin, flesh on
a fuji, red and ripe);

says love is an apple,
best consumed in fall,
when weather is cool,
borne of spring, summer’s
heat introducing true
tests of endurance,
lasting ability – all
good until the worms
burrow in for the season,
until thunderstorms
destroy sun-dried
washing on the line,
until it’s far too cold
to take the basket outside
and all the work
is done by machine.

and then:
dig up the tree.
sell the washer.
plant roses under the clothesline.

because
rotten apples
don’t taste good
and rain always
makes things wet.