Diannely Antigua
ORCHARD REVISITED
for Andrés
In the beginning, there was no word.
So I called him baby apple, conceived
in September. I fell in love
with the seed, as if it were my own,
so happy I would be—the single,
queer aunt, always late for the parties.
At the root, to miscarry could mean
there was a wrong way to cradle
what only the insides could touch.
At home, I boiled the water, lit
the rose-scented candle. In the hospital,
my sister and her husband waited
to meet their dead son. At the root,
to miss could mean failure to see,
to meet. I wasn’t there, but in the dark
with the candle I’d lit for him that morning,
now night, watching its small bursts of shadows
on my bedroom walls—the flame,
steady at first, then wild as the last of the wick
drowned in the melted wax. After that,
there were no more shadows.
After that, I wept for a candle,
not knowing then it was linked to the baby,
the two destined to leave
at the same time. Maybe it was magic
or coincidence. Maybe it was
the opposite of Let there be light.
At the root, to carry could mean
to be known by a name.
He was born named and red
like Delicious, like Gala, like Braeburn.
He was new blood and bright fruit.
Sometimes it isn’t the tree’s fault
but the wind’s. The farmer will still
gather the fallen apples.
Diannely Antigua is a Dominican American poet and author of the collections Ugly Music (YesYes Books, 2019) and Good Monster (Copper Canyon Press, 2024). From 2022-2024, she was the 13th Poet Laureate of Portsmouth, NH. She currently teaches in the MFA Writing Program at UNH as the Nossrat Yassini Poet in Residence.