Apples

When I look at their round bodies piled

against the curved white edge of the bowl

we keep on the counter, I do not take pleasure

in the knowledge of their nectar or imagine

the blossom of their birth. I never pause

to recognize the long trip to rest near salt and flour.

Instead I see their endings in the promise

of tomorrow’s rot waiting to steal skin and core.

But then my husband stops to rinse one,

grabbing a knife to slice he takes the red

between his teeth, not glancing once, while he

crunches, at the drain in the middle of the sink.

Susan Trofimow is a writer based in Boston, MA. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pretty Owl Poetry, River Heron Review, Barren Magazine, Rust + Moth, Atticus Review and others.