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Stars in the Apple
September, 2020

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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