December 2015
Martin Willitts Jr
mwillitts01@yahoo.com
mwillitts01@yahoo.com
As a Quaker, I take social protest seriously. I ended up as a field medic in Vietnam as a non-violent response, trying to rescue as many wounded as possible, ending up being wounded myself. When I returned to the US, both the protestors hated me (grouping me with all returning vets) and vets hated me (for serving all wounded included "the other side"), and I was unable to find a job for a long time, being homeless, hence "Making Apple Pies After the War" (below). Unless you know suffering you can never appreciate the struggle a homeless person experiences. I was not a drug user, I was unwanted. I had to change myself and my direction. I was able to escape; others are not so lucky.
Making Apple Pies After the War
When flour has sprinkled water it forms small beads,
tiny silences knowing moonlight.
My ears fill with my making. I press a rolling pin
to smooth it into a stream near a monk’s temple.
I ease crust into a round glass pan as a baby’s blanket.
I only wanted this life. This simple sweet pleasure
where kitchens are warm and someone wears an apron.
After being homeless, I wanted this settling-in.
Immense satisfaction is an apple, peeled to the core.
I slice the apple lovingly — yes; lovingly — for it’s possible
to love what you do, what you have, what you lost, what
you cannot regain after loss and finding. The smell of work,
the knowledge you can do some task after feeling worthless.
But I never lost belief — in myself, in something greater,
some plan where I fit in, just like this apple.
The apple seed believes it has some importance.
A tree believes in the religion of trees.
Bees and blossoms have responsibilities they must fulfill.
Even a ladder leaning on a branch
knows the weight of the person and the weight of full basket.
I know how the last apple feels to be bruised.
How the seed feels being tossed away as if no worth.
How the tree feels when emptied.
And here I am — slicing, letting parts fall
where they may, into a nest I created out of flour and water,
molding and pressing into hugs,
into prayers, like cinnamon on apple slices.
I crisscross the pie top as a basket-maker might.
I slide the pie onto an oven rack and close the door.
I can call this oven mine, this aroma mine,
the house will be mine in six years,
and I think to myself, how lucky I am.
I have a place where I can belong
after not belonging for so long.
Then it occurs to me,
like a person needing a walker to move forward,
I always belonged; I just didn’t know it.
I remove the pie.
It smells of a lover. It smells of place.
It is the odor of cinnamon and apples and trees
in an orchard of sadness finding light.
I set it in front of friends and some homeless strangers.
We share the sweetness, eating slices of belonging
and not belonging. The homeless will return
under bridges where winds increase in force like police.
But for one night they were not alone.
They will carry with them that moment
when someone looked them square in the eye,
even if it was to ask, do you want seconds.
For you see, sweetness is more than pie
with a side of vanilla ice cream. Sometimes,
you have to make those rough edges
where the bottom half meets the top,
and I am not talking about making apple pie.
Making Apple Pies After the War
When flour has sprinkled water it forms small beads,
tiny silences knowing moonlight.
My ears fill with my making. I press a rolling pin
to smooth it into a stream near a monk’s temple.
I ease crust into a round glass pan as a baby’s blanket.
I only wanted this life. This simple sweet pleasure
where kitchens are warm and someone wears an apron.
After being homeless, I wanted this settling-in.
Immense satisfaction is an apple, peeled to the core.
I slice the apple lovingly — yes; lovingly — for it’s possible
to love what you do, what you have, what you lost, what
you cannot regain after loss and finding. The smell of work,
the knowledge you can do some task after feeling worthless.
But I never lost belief — in myself, in something greater,
some plan where I fit in, just like this apple.
The apple seed believes it has some importance.
A tree believes in the religion of trees.
Bees and blossoms have responsibilities they must fulfill.
Even a ladder leaning on a branch
knows the weight of the person and the weight of full basket.
I know how the last apple feels to be bruised.
How the seed feels being tossed away as if no worth.
How the tree feels when emptied.
And here I am — slicing, letting parts fall
where they may, into a nest I created out of flour and water,
molding and pressing into hugs,
into prayers, like cinnamon on apple slices.
I crisscross the pie top as a basket-maker might.
I slide the pie onto an oven rack and close the door.
I can call this oven mine, this aroma mine,
the house will be mine in six years,
and I think to myself, how lucky I am.
I have a place where I can belong
after not belonging for so long.
Then it occurs to me,
like a person needing a walker to move forward,
I always belonged; I just didn’t know it.
I remove the pie.
It smells of a lover. It smells of place.
It is the odor of cinnamon and apples and trees
in an orchard of sadness finding light.
I set it in front of friends and some homeless strangers.
We share the sweetness, eating slices of belonging
and not belonging. The homeless will return
under bridges where winds increase in force like police.
But for one night they were not alone.
They will carry with them that moment
when someone looked them square in the eye,
even if it was to ask, do you want seconds.
For you see, sweetness is more than pie
with a side of vanilla ice cream. Sometimes,
you have to make those rough edges
where the bottom half meets the top,
and I am not talking about making apple pie.
©2015 Martin Willitts Jr