I spy on the neighbour’s garden
an apple tree, six foot three
with perfect ripe reds and greens
growing towards the heavens.
Every spring without fail
doctors, lawyers
and pharmacists blossom
on every stem.
It is a mighty sight to behold
roots so strong, resilient
the rich soil, bountiful.
The good apples run wild
whilst the bad ones are left at home.
Week after week
wedding invitations jam the letterbox
saris, flaunted
sharp suits, rented
laughter, song and dances are rehearsed one after one.
Painted smiles are then packed away for the day
in the trunk of an aunty’s hefty kameez collection.
Windows wide open the Adhan begins to play
I look at their glistening white gate
and wonder what secrets are veiled.
On the ground lies a popped football,
a broken doll misses her head.
It only takes one to swipe the blade.
I wondered if the whispers are true
that the good son is hiding a bastard child
or that the daughter has ran away with a Chinese man.
The branches will not reach that far
her mother searches the map
and is met with strange names
and decided that the roots will rot.
I can’t live without him, he’s the one.
Hushed and chided
the family loudly divided
No tears flow for the wayward child
as she swings the sharp axe splintering its heart.
Picture courtesy of Qasim Alam.
Wells Street Journal 