Gathering Season by Jessie Raymundo

Gathering Season

I lift the basket & set it by the roots.

Each orange comes away clean,

no sound but the soft thump as it lands.

This is how harvest happens—

a slow twist of the wrist, a steady walk

down the row, another branch, another fruit.

He wasn’t much older than myself

when he drove away. They searched

the highway but only found a glove.

For days, the neighbors called his name

through the dust. Once, I thought I’d leave this

valley. I could pack all I owned, but there

wasn’t anywhere to go—just another road,

another silence. Whatever happened,

I like to think he stayed gone.

I can’t tell you how quiet the branches wait,

leaves still, as I twist the fruit

from its stem & lay it in the basket.

Thirteen rows of trees, & you’ll soon

have your fill for the dry season. I’ll bear no blame

if the sweetness keeps you up at night.

Jessie Raymundo is a poet and educator from the Philippines. In 2024, he was awarded a Brooklyn Poets Fellowship. His poems have appeared in TAB: The Journal of Poetry and Poetics, The Madrid Review, South Dakota Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere.