Allison Campbell Jensen

Scales, spots, slashes—slipping my knife under the apples’ skin, I remove the oddities, cosmetic surgeon to the Haralson seconds, half the price yet as the peels rise, the perfume is luscious. Then one comes to hand that seems perfect, deep red peel strips off to reveal white flesh. Why did it become a second? It’s a bit small, so runtiness perhaps doomed it.

So minor, this difference, to me and yet to someone grading the apples, enough. It can be mysterious which differences will determine who or what is valued and what or who is cast into the seconds bin. When we look at each other, could we see beyond the skin (sans knives)? Could we catch a whiff of the perfume of shared Spirit? Could we say: “no seconds”?