Apples, or We Are All Tempted

 

And I kept in my pocket the green letters and icing;

that cake that never got smaller.

If only they'd told me, the bakers that sold it

about the apples beneath.

Golden apples for life and poisoned for death

bitter for faces and...these

All the apples underneath.

And I sold for the locket the unending cake

that never was eaten at all;

I sold for the face of  a foregone beloved

 hope of nothing, well-gnawed.

And still unknown, still concealed, still sweet

red apples gleaming

in the far, far beneath.

Oh, how perfect they are, how unbitten

are the red apples beneath

And how sharp in the shearing illusion

are my beloved's teeth.

Good grief, I have a terrifying thought that I've written a poem that...is about Twilight. Honestly, I'm not sure. I just had this image of buried apples much more potent than the apples of the Hesperides and...you know, there's just no excuse. Apples are always going to be dangerous. 

Sharing this week with the much saner than I poets of  The Sunday Muse and Poets and Storytellers United. Come read widely and well!

-- Chrissa