Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue One

Carine Topal

Eating Apples

He showed her how
the skin goes first,
a gracious ripping of the fruit.
And she mimicked him,
tearing through the pomme de ciel.

It was almost tropical,
wet and large as fuchsia.

He showed her how
using her teeth as tools
when she got to the cluster of black seeds
thatched deep in the shaft,
she could bring them out like a tease
without losing a single gem; taught her
how to clench her tongue to save them, then
throw them back to safely slide down
to the darkest part of the rest of her.

September apples must be eaten.
This ball of seeds that nestles
near the core, swallowed whole,
as if they had never been eaten,
the tart pulp of ripeness
still kicking in her mouth.