A Bag of Green Apples

I share Sylvia’s bag of green apples,
and prepare myself for you —
while you, on the bottom rung,
starting out
like still water
in a cold pot,
cause me to stutter.
My hands stir the air to a panic,
digging my mirror from its earth.

I pick her green apples
from their tree,
and load them in my mouth.
I eat them all down to the core,
take even the seeds in.

You reach for every limb
I have to offer —
it is you I am full of.
It is for you
that I sustain life.

Your fruit lives in me
where you, and your blood, spill.
Afterwards you will leave
a violent mark,
knowing I will cry after you,
and that (for now) I cry
for you.

But, soon, we shall sing
our morning love songs,
put the mirror back
on the wall
and lean the ladder
against an empty apple tree.