Apple Fall

We drink apple cider air like Tatik drank whiskey, heads tilted back with the same red-faced laughter. We don’t know what’s funny either, but we keep hush among the hunchbacked trees. Their branches beckon from behind stacked stones, pulling us to their edges. Our knees hook onto knots for secondsminuteshours and we are birds until our faces swell and flush, when we drop, leaving sky clouds for dirt clouds. We throw pebbles up against the rain, let them peck our faces with good-night kisses, but when we lick our wounds, the bruises don’t taste any different than the rest of us. Mami smiles the same, too, even after her cheek turns purple.

Our toes find the wall’s crevices and push us back up and over. The moon ripens, golden and harboring worms, but we still want to take a bite.

Emilia Porubcin is a permanent student and aspiring programmer from western Illinois. She loves writing, antiquing, and jaywalking. Her work has been featured in The Vignette Review.

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