Photograph for my Father by Susan Varon

Something simple like an apple

can make me cry if it is very small and fallen

like the apples in our yard

with their chalky taste, lying

in dented grass. It’s been so long

since I’ve seen something that pure,

just the size of the lump in my throat

when I posed for you

in my undershirt, feeling bad,

wormy. I was too old,

the green wooden lawn chair

all angles and planes, my body sprawled.

I was too old to be

among the wormy apples

fallen all around me.

Little green stems, a thin-skinned red.

Inside, the white pulp

of rebellion, thickened and coursening.

I would never have thought of telling you

no, it was something you wanted

that had me in it.

The blades of the mower went back

and forth in the grass, slicing the apples,

tossing them into the air.

No no, you told me, Pick up the apples

first, put them all in a basket. I preferred it

the other way, slicing their skin open.

More art by Goni Montes here.

Recommended listening: No Messages For Rumi – Apu and The Dentist

Links of the day: Bus stops transform into illustrative art galleries

Large Hearted Boy (Authors and their music playlists while writing recent books)


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