Crates and crates of autumn fruits
Apples red and green, big and small
Some speckled with delicate brown dots
Freckled like a young child.

My strong uncles and cousins haul the heavy crates across my Nonna’s farm
Releasing each to the ground with a loud thump
In front of the garage

In there, we work.
Peeling, pumping, pressing, pouring
Handfuls of the plump fruits into the juicer

I pick up a lonesome apple
Resting on the cold, hard floor.
It is bruised, spiked with a stubble that cannot be shaved
Overly ripe and soft.
I swat the ravenous flies away

We squeeze the juice from the ample fruits
A burst of stickiness
Trickling to the ground below
We grunt, we sweat,
And our finished product gives off
A sweet, fresh scent
Cider