The Apple
A sick and subtle exercise,
eating you,
apple.
Your waxy, tainted skin is mine,
ossified by days
swimming through a chemosphere
bathed under an explicit sun.
One must labor for years at that skin
to find any meat within.
Still I turn two blind eyes
away from the terrifying truth:
no more do you keep the doctor away.
Your withered, rotted sanctity is mine;
still I want your seeds spread over and
across this lustful, fertile land
by a modern-day Johnny Applefiend
who Instagrams his every crazy move.
I offer small sacrifices to entice my apple tree to produce: goats, chickens, animated pounds of flesh.
Yet when it does, if it does, each year’s iteration seems ever more putrid and a slight bit less…