Apples

I used to eat them by halves, weighing bites

upon my tongue, stopping just before the core

where flesh grows tough and sour

where my lips begin to swell and itch—

savoring the thunk of an untouched half

against the plastic bin.

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Today I walk to the cafe, my fingers slick with the mess from tearing tight red skin

like a primate. As I chew, I imagine women centuries ago who did not have plastic

under their skin or in their kitchens to dump supple, half-eaten apples, the white insides

tainting brown, withering among seltzer cans, scraps of kale, whatever else keeps us hungry.

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I wrap my lips around the green veins of its core; seeds loosen like brash between my teeth.

I will tear out every crevice until nothing remains but stem and seeds wedged into my molars, until

It is finished and my mouth swells, tongue itching and numb.

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I will suffer for an hour and wish

I forfeited the other half

that dripped juice down unwashed fingers,

and bloated my lips, my tongue

my stomach, yet left me sticky and fresh

and full as I swallowed the final seed:

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I am not afraid if it grows.

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