Apple Blossom Milk

The apple blossom buds
this April
have been suspended in infancy
for a great while—

like nipples with droplets of milk
hardened to crust
in the openings.

I can still juggle a soccer ball
using both feet and thighs
a hundred times without
involving the ground.

All the balls in the shed
are child-size and flat—
the door finally came unhinged

leaving dead hives
and the comas of crowbars and
waterlogged skateboards
unguarded.

My father's bicycle leaned in front of the house
all winter
and nobody stole it

but the back tire is airless
and there is no functional pump.

The escapes of certain things
like air
are at once sneaky
and yet unsurprising—

when we bought a new refrigerator
my mother spent an entire
roll of disposable camera film on
the old one's
color

its special shelves
and contents

and she's done so similarly
with old washing machines
station wagons
and threadbare pairs
of soccer-ball patterned boxers
before tearing them
with a great satisfaction
defiantly

upon caving

admitting these things had
finally succeeded in their sneaky escapes.

I have pimples on my adult face
for some reason
that feel akin
to the apple blossom buds

or nipple milk
that will not arouse
from its sockets fully
and whose purpose
is at most times
obscured.