Road Home

Black Bowl With Apples on Old Table Cloth

I have placed a bowl of apples
in the center of the table,
an iron bowl, black and strong, its legs
curled under like snakes about to
strike. I have placed the bowl upon
a cotton table cloth that my
sisters made sure was mine when our
mother died. It's white, with yellow
roses bordered by broad red stripes.
I've kept it all these years, I find,
so I could set a place for you--
the black bowl, yellow roses, red
stripes, apples the color of spring.
This time I will pick the fruit.

It will be crisp and cool and tart,
and with our sharpest knife, I will
sever skin from meat in perfect
empty circles, like rings, like mouths,
like the moan between your open
legs and we will eat this naked,
skinless fruit together, lips to
lips, teeth and tongue biting, chewing,
licking juices from mouth and fruit
and mouth not knowing which or who,
mingling, merging, urging into
the other, the three of us one,
you, me, and the promise of fruit,
all gifts of sisters and mothers.