Fear of Apples
by Alexandra Gazzaniga Padilla
Fallen from cold brown branches,
bruised and broken.
I collect them anyway.
Grandmother says to get them all:
jam does not need fresh fruit.
My fingers are cold on the soft skin.
My thumbnail punctures to the core,
and I drop it, afraid of a worm.
I do not want this
chore. It feels like
gathering the dead.
I'd like to
dig into the dirt, bury
these mealy corpses.
Let me pick fresh flowers,
drop one on the new
fruit-grave,
put another in my hair, and
twirl it all the way home.
This week's poems are from Silhouette: Bold Lines & Voices from Writegirl. You can learn more about Writegirl and the cool things they do here.
Book Provided by... Writegirl, for review consideration
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