An apple is not a story: swollen with
golden nectar, devoured, morsel by
morsel, in one forbidden sitting, she
satisfies her unquenchable curiosity.
Vast inflamed mystery, this pale
delicate flesh, this tart juicy
nibbling, more than a story, an apple,
a primly wrapped promise, a ruse, a guise,
concealing soiled secrets and seeds buried
for unappeasable tongues, coming to
life for those not afraid of seeing, of
salivating, not afraid to be glutted with
smooth ripe flesh — wasps murmur in the grass,
satiated, earth-bound with drunkenness, heedless of
penetration, or wait in trees for resurrection
as chlorophyll-laden leaves transform rays of
sun, transform, into nectar-filled flowers,
into crimson harbingers of joy, foretellers
of truths, a story, an apple, ripe with weight.
She steps carefully over the circle of bodies that abound.
© Mike Maggio 2013
