Forgive me, but I laughed when I saw your grave,
apples in disarray, freckled in decay. Encircled,
it looked like a seasonal donut – apple spice cake –
limited time offer, the hole composting.
I imagined you offering me apples, reenacting the first time,
me pretending, not like the first time, not to notice your
nipples mounding. You watched me bite hard, apple juice drooling, delicious flesh bursting, a little tart.
Ha, ha. I buried you here to witness fruitlessness,
waiting for a snowy bathrobe, waiting to be juiced up,
blossom sweating nectar, growing the fruit that tempted me
and put you here.