Stars in the Apple
I’m waiting for my mother to come
show me the star in my apple. Each time
she opens it like a gift she couldn’t give me.
Seeds wait in the star like I
waited in her, hoping unborn
for the unlikely best.
At my age, I know best no best will come.
I know my mother long ago dead will
not enter the kitchen where I sit.
I love the stars more than ever
I loved her. I’m waiting for night.
But give her credit: she knew
every apple holds a star
and I think she knew
every seed holds a song
she somehow learned and sang
to my ear while I took seeds in my hand
and the firm white flesh in my mouth.
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