Tell the Mother

by Holly Karapetkova

Not to wait, not to wait for them.
The Dumikos ridge descended upon them
dragging the sun behind it, dragging the moon,
the shattered rocks, uprooted pines
and one ripe apple tree bent with fruit;
beneath its branches the brothers embraced
and the younger one turned to the older
saying, hold on, brother, don’t let go,
the fruit falling like bullets, red pulp.