Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton

Comparative Advantage
Sarah Neitz
A graphite curve connects me to you
so strictly separated into rise and run.
You pick apples in your orchard
and I pick cherries in mine and
our lives are numbers running up the cross-hatched blues of
the page,
trade gracefully arching from my orchard to yours.
I peer toward your axis,
and see you
swollen with crimson fruit,
eyes closed against the sun, seeing red,
pits and cores in the grass by your feet.
I gnaw my yield until I taste stem.
I imagine
that I sit under your tree
while you throw apples at the rough bark above my head.
I laugh,
throwing my neck back,
my hair scattering sunshine
and teardrop seeds.
You wear a hat
and overalls
and smell of fresh grass
and sweet honey crisps.
I already gave you a handful of sour cherries
in early summer.
You closed your hand around my bursting knuckles
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