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The air was clotted with flies
as she ducked beneath limbs to pick
the ripest sunrise-colored fruit.
Voices from the house grew faint
as she moved up the hillside
alone in a green orchard hung
with blushed-gold, stepping around
split globes whose sap oozed
over umber seeds. His arms
grabbed her from behind
a curtain of leaves, her mouth
ached, her legs stung,
her pail spilled all its gold.

      — Teresa White

Hear Teresa White read 'Love Among the Apricots'