A POEM ABOUT WHITE APPLES
white apples, first apples of summer,
with skin as delicate as a baby’s,
crispy like white winter snow.
your smell won’t let me sleep,
this is how dead men
are haunting their murderers’ dreams.
white apples,
this is how every july the earth
gets heavier under your weight.
and here only garbage smells like garbage;
and here only tears taste like salt;
and we were picking them
like shells in green ocean gardens,
having just turned away from our mothers’ breasts
we were learning
to get to the core of everything with our teeth.
so why are our teeth like cotton balls now;
white apples,
in black waters, the fishermen,
nursed by you, are drowning.
(Read by Valzhyna on the October 19, 2006 podcast)