MOTHER. A September apple. Conical, elongated, medium in size,
yellow background, bright red mottling (as cheeks can be). Bears fruit
when young. Perfumed flesh—when ripe. The old apples that still
pass lips are: Lady (tender flesh, fruit of aristocrats). Mann. Maiden
Blush. Knobbed Russet—potato-pocked, ugly welts and knobs. This
I do not like. There is Seek-no-Further. It hangs on the tree until
overripe. All the while, Mother is stripping an apple, a pale green eye.
The toes of her boots laden with layers of peel. Lies upon lies upon.
You will sleep together in a bed big as the moon, so big you can never
reach the other side, she says. The knife sweeps round and round,
skinning the eye. I would not. I took to the cellar, the ripening room.
Above, the season sloughed, rabbits flushed white to match the snow.
Breathe. Cellar gas. Breathe. What other things are heavier than air?
Unwilling womb shedding velvet; jar-pickled desire; a hope boiled
dry in a cast-iron pan. Breathe. In the dark he will whisper to me My
dear you are like a lamp in the night. Ethylene, kerosene, the names
of lost girls. He will be Wolf River, roots solid on the shores of Lake
Erie, sweeter in the cold. I’ll climb into his crown, make darkness my
blanket. A captive heart must sleep with one eye open.