I remember bumping into you
At the grocery store,
Looking at produce.

And I was looking at pears
And you were looking at apples.

You called "Hey!"
And I suddenly wished
I had worn make-up that day.

But I couldn't ignore you,
So I said "Hi"
While butterflies in my stomach
Shone through my eyes.

We made small talk,
Talked about the weather,
My family,
Yours.

Then the conversation turned to apples,
And you asked my opinion.

I've never been good at short answers-
This time was no exception.

"Well,"
I said,
"I think apples can be a metaphor
For humans.
Some people are sweet
But if they go too long without love,
They turn rotten.
Others are sour
But that's what makes them
Sweet.
Some are loved as soon as they come in,
And others get passed around
And never picked,
Dropped and bruised,
And they are thrown away
Before they can go bad."

You nodded and listened,
Obviously paying thought.
"Do you have any others ideas on the merits
Of apples?"

I started to blush,
I wanted to bite my tongue,
But for some reason,
I offered,
"Only that I've heard-
I don't know if it's even true-
That in Ancient Greece
Throwing an apple at a woman
Was considered a marriage proposal."

You raised your eyebrows,
Chuckled,
And picked up an apple,
Looking at  it in your hand,
"Catch!"

-
-
-
And perhaps every love story is the same story
Perhaps we've all just conditioned ourselves to tell it differently
In ways that make the most sense to us.

i love apples
      and hotdogs

but they don't go together

they aren't meant
       to have one future

This is a thing
Papple...
Where a satanic beast
slipped an innocent victim
a Roofie
and 9 months later
Papple...

Apples can come in all shapes and sizes,
Two apples they are not the same,
See one and it's in your hand before it realizes,
Choosing the right one is part of the game,

They can look so sweet from where you sit,
But once you bite into that rotten part,
It changes your whole perception of it,
And can send and arrow through your heart,

To me I'm an apple not wholly bad,
To you the shiniest and most delectable you'd seen,
Sadly more bitter than you what thought you had,
But with time to ripen fit for my queen.

For apples to be we are both bruised,
We have been hurt and reduced,
Some visible, and some I denied the clues,
Yet together us perfectly flawed apples have fused,

Like a pair that only comes in a dual pack,
Still we cannot unfeel what we have felt,
Nor take back the damage i have dealt.
I vow to bring us back on track.

Let me be your sun,
Your source of growth,
Your only one,
So hear my oath.

I will be your love, your inspiration,
Like the apple of your first impression,
We will roll down hills and across nations,
For this is the long run and not a single session.

I see now that we could endure any weather
From stormy oceans to scorching heat
And one day i hope our seeds grow a tree together
That no other apple could possibly beat.

Apples.












-my brother

Black Rook In Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent

Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.

The Response*

Even while flashbulbs go out, every now and then, we all must gather our arms and legs in a heap of human kindling, to rap tap tap on the downstairs neighbors door- for a set of candles, perhaps a chance to go completely insane for one terse moment when the hyperbole of vowels *just don't matter anymore.

And speaking of the sordid state of griseous gull-like creatures. Ravenous ravens gnawing outside the window of the kitchen table. How boring life can become, for at the moment, when we are not biting our nails, playing dress up, or playing doctor- all *******. Or maybe even burying our heads in the looks of rooks or with our noses brimming over with the tops of books.

The tea we have set in the study awaits us, as we all have to drink our tea some time.

Just don't leave the lights on baby. Who needs lamps at full lux at high noon any who? You, Mrs. Sylvia Plath Hughes? Maybe you ought to buy a book of stamps- at the nearest Hobby Lobby, pack a paper bag with an apple and a 'sammich', and list formally your complaints.

We can't all waste our time narrating other people's lives in the third person.