there is an unspoken tenderness when
a fruit is
peeled for flesh
sliced in bits
broken in pieces
for you. / sitting in your room
rotting, peeled
to the core and left out to dry
the fruit you eat alone—your sustenance
tastes bitter against your tongue
like salt to a wound (and now your gums are bleeding;
the first bite of an apple is always the hardest)

but a multitude of seconds minutes hours pass
she creeps up on you (even though you know
the sound of her footsteps)
eight slices
skin peeled
juicy and tart and what you need
granting you paradise reprieve peace—like
water in a sieve
you wonder why she does this for you; this is what
happens when you’re bone tired

is it atonement / is it service
is this love?
your mother is worlds away yet
with a sliced apple
the pale, fresh pieces blur the space in which she starts
and you begin

there is an unspoken tenderness when
a fruit is peeled
sliced
broken for you. / it transcends time
affection forgiveness
for a moment—time reverses and stops and begins again
you touch the broken fruit (they are turning brown)
and you live in the rotting tenderness
even if for a moment