Peeled apple skin
Peeled apple skin
Peeled skin
Peeled apple skin
Peeled skin
You picture me with a knife in hand, standing by your beigey garbage disposal switch in your beigey kitchen. Only the smallest evidence is left behind: a coil of pink-fleshed, red apple skin, its pretty spiral thin and uninterrupted by my deft blade, curling on your counter. But for what?
A threat, “I skin you.”
An insult, “I make messes in your space,
and I don’t clean them up.”
A flirt, “I undress you.”
A carelessness, “I have strange habits,
and I forget to
hide them from you.”
and I forget to
hide them from you.”
A kindness, “Your favorite dessert
is in the oven,
I left this clue for you.”
is in the oven,
I left this clue for you.”
A cruelty, “Remember, I’m with you;
I won’t leave you alone.”
I won’t leave you alone.”
A blasphemy, “I tempt you from God.”
A healing, “Look up
from the kitchen counter, I have
slices of apples and honey to dip them in
at our table.”
from the kitchen counter, I have
slices of apples and honey to dip them in
at our table.”
A haunting, “All this time
you thought you were by yourself,
I have been here – watching, thinking about
you thought you were by yourself,
I have been here – watching, thinking about
removing our topmost layers.”
How do we take up space in each other’s lives? You won’t recall clearing a spot for my mugs, but they clink against yours on the shelf, hot from the dishwasher. Are you meant to understand my socked feet slipping closer, my bedding-down away? One thing I know: our core is lost to us both.
---
Editor's note: due to intentional formatting, this piece is best viewed on a large screen.
This is lovely. Amazingly original.
ReplyDelete