I drink my heartbeat in a cup
Of cold coffee,
I sit and rest my words.
The apple never takes a respite:
Incessantly beguiling temptress,
Relentlessly pulsing with sugars, hiding that star
At its core; it is
Flirtatious in its mouthless silence.
Hallucination, she appears. She has a voice
Both soft and rough, like
The sound of crunching rind, the ends of her
Sentences dropping off— dribbles of juice.
I can feel the wet sweetness on my eyelids
When I blink.
Her apple seed eyes close-open black
From the flawless delicacy of a woman’s face, a woman’s
Untouched, unclothed body
It’s like she’s riveted in space
By those restless atramentaceous irises.
“Granny Smith” has never been
A sensual term
But as those crisp viridian nails
Comb through bough-brown hair,
Skim her neck,
I want the sensations of those fingertips.
Who’s flesh is fruit now?
Please, pick me.
She approaches, (apple on the nightstand)
Her breath is dew
The leaves outside stir with wind.
Her skin is close enough to touch.
The apple on the nightstand throbs
Tones of McIntosh color her cheeks,
Reflect in twilight
Off the dimples
On her back.
Please pick me.
I do not want her heart.
A convenience since
She does not have one.
She is an apple…
I am unconvinced.
She tells me
To release her from the fortress
Of the tree,
To let her lie upon the cool
A shudder sneaks up,
And slithers round my spine,
Wrapping my skin in goose bumps.
My hand lands flat on her blush yellow stomach.
Her flesh feels like apples in my mind
Smooth and cool. Please,
(She needs me) I say,
My heart gallops in a frantic rhythm
The cold coffee spills into my lap.
And with the caffeine, she is gone.
The apple glares disdainfully
From beside the rumpled bed.
The apple asks
“Why didn’t you pick me?”