To hear me read this, click here:

 

Don’t groan. There is room
for another apple poem.

No one is counting how many
have been penned, sung,
stamped into books and magazines.

There is no quota
for recipes
with or without the skins,
tart and sweet, red and green,
that glorify
the juicy firm insides,
palest yellow
around their seeds
which radiate like tiny
tear shaped chestnuts
from mysterious beginnings.

Yes, I’ve picked them.
Traipsed up and down manicured rows
of trees, deceptively stout,
prolific.

I’ve washed them lovingly,
held some in my cupped hands,
marveling at their perfection.

Some I’ve eaten whole,
others sliced, arranged artfully
on small white plates
to entice my he and my her
to partake.

I’ve baked my share of crisps and pies,
made thick, pruney compote,
rendered sweetly honeyed ones
into cakes that nod
to autumn
and Rosh Hashanah.

Truth is, after my gall bladder
became medical waste—
quite needlessly, I now believe—
after that
my romps with raw pommes de terre
were over.

For years
I could not digest them
unless cooked beyond reason,
mashed to runny sauce
that bore little trace
of their glorious beginnings.

Then I discovered digestive enzymes
which made miracles happen
between my gut and the apples.

Those grainy, odd tasting chewables
arrive, now, in dark jars
and by subscription,
so my apple days may continue.

Perhaps I should poem of them—
“An Ode to Cellulase and Amylase,
Protease and Papain”

Might that bring readers galore,
all rushing to chew on my earnest words?

-Melinda Coppola