Her Baby's Arm Holds A Red Apple Poem by James McLain

There is so much low hanging fruit there out in the orchard
large fuzzy peaches and brown furry pears.
Olives that grow without pits and a sea of seedless pomegranates.
A transgender ask a strange child what is a normal question,
and Jesus said.
There is more light after the sun goes down and the moon without question
is not always full with a bright smile on it's face.
Above her head sits a large apple the skinny green vines full of grapes.
No purple juice gushed forth from the grapes that were squeezed.
Here woman sit on fat heads as they watch the rain fall up to
their knees
my version of all that we see as the oceans let go of white foam.
Such healthy girls that are born out of wedlock to large virgin men.
Every body races on out to surround an isolated island.
Subsequently her eyes that cried fat free yellow milk and after grabbing my arm
the blame was attributed to the stars.
Every one that could not be there liked the pie quite a lot.