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Sunday, March 16, 2014

Dust to Green Apple Dust


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Dust to Green Apple Dust 


She strips-standing on a wicker chair
strips for him holding his green bottle by
its neck – easy as he’d hold hers - telling her
not to fuss not that she would when he done
gone to plop spread-eagle, slack-faced ready
to squeeze the life out of her throat if she stops
moving – standing on the wicker chair creaking with
her bare feet –
as might falls and the tower lights come
up in the city sparking light after light until
they shine like a tiara in the distance and she
can pretend, as his eyes shutter-shut sleep rolling
the bottle from 
ham-fist
unfurled
she can pretend that maybe God did make
little green apples and maybe it won’t snow
this year in Minneapolis when the winter comes
and as she pushes the chair back to the table and
pulls on her jeans and tee shirt moves to the baby
crying in the other room – she can pass him sleeping
now – a stray lock of hair falling on his forehead and
believe that she sure was just giving him a bit of fun and his
love is as sure as the sweet green apple dust from which they
both came and where they will all return some day –
some pretty sweet day –
some pretty sweet day –
soon  









The Sunday Whirl « weekly wordles


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