SONJA JOHANSON

OSAGE ORANGES AT THE ARNOLD

A garden, yes, but also
a haven for lovers,
addicts, joggers
and other lost souls
choking to death
on the city

A tree museum
where we are curating
species we are wiping out
beside species we are bringing in
that kill

Forbidden, yes
but not the fruit of knowledge
only a hedge apple
long divorced
from its seed disperser, whispering
where are the mammoths? and
how did I get here?

Snakes, torpid now,
even the images
carved into this skin
a frieze full of miniscule elvers,
a green brain moving,
heavy in the hand –
the weighty sin
of stealing them