This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Red Delicious

April 23 2007

The fruit must be polished

to a high gloss.

Not candy-apple or fire-engine,

but rich russet

vintage wine.

Halved

by a chef’s knife,

slipping through, unresisting.

Its thick black handle, carbon steel,

the weight

of its well-honed blade.

Then precisely sliced

again

and again.

Eight perfect wedges,

virgin white, whorehouse red,

still shiny

shameless.

Its fragrance

has brightness, and bite,

the yeasty sweetness

of over-ripe fruit.

A synaesthetic blend

of luscious

gusto

lust.

Then the crisp crunch, and cool taste

eaten right away,

before delicate flesh

descends

into rust.

An apple, laid open

is quickly corrupted

by fetid air.

Which only sharpens

the exquisite moment

of perfection.