Apple

That – is your wife – leaning against the tree?
Ahh! She is lovely,
boughs and roots
& two fine apples in her dress.
Do not be angered – she is beautiful.
Look how she looks over the land,
seeing how everything is
lit with the setting sun.
She wears a face like longing.
I could love her, here
here – in clean air & dying grass
new, together
finally, effortlessly new.

Do her thighs smell of apples, there in your bed?
Oh, the darkness presses thick on the windows then,
& her skin is tired to you.
The sunset has all faded from her face.

Look how she looks over the land,
unseeing you or I.
The wind holds her dress tight to her hips.
With one hand
she tries to push it away.


Submitted by Shaker F. Lynd