Apple Crown

Gemstone placenta decomposes under
an endless tropic of wide sky. A place
where lo dulce requires labor & shade––payment.

In El Salvador, the origami of fruit
requires intricate folding & inherited papercuts.
Semilla de marañon packed in plastic bags,
bundled in childhood suitcases––a raw naked nut with a legacy.

Awkward shaped apple with a curved dense crown,
you suck the sweet sour meat out after you pluck the nut.
A place where lo dulce requires labor & shade––payment.

Paternal matriarch, a bitter inside out marañon
missing the crown, would send flor y fauna pamphlets
to ensure I carry the family taxonomy.

Botanical chants spreading through my veins,
about the mythical “back home,” my personal
wonderland, where fruits grow nuts, nuts grow crowns,
mountains taste like a kind of cookie dough, & fires
along the countryside camouflage the earth’s
mouth swallowing it all back into self.

Named for salvation & treasure “back home,”
sunk into horrible when empire cast
a shadow over volcanic grandeur.

So when figureheads defame, dehumanize us,
we don a cobalt blue hat made of sky. We testify
to the triumph of our grit in verses we hide
under rocks for a girl looking for apples to chew,
crowns to don, & instructions
for the origami of fruit, to find,

so she can excavate the sweet flesh
of the tierra where lo dulce requires
labor & shade––payment.