Mike Maggio

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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

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