A Short History of the Apple

Ger Stallenberg

A Short History of the Apple

Teeth at the skin. Anticipation.
Then flesh. Grain on the tongue.
Eve’s knees ground in the dirt
of paradise. Newton watching
gravity happen. The history
of apples in each starry core,
every papery chamber’s bright
bitter seed. Woody stem
an infant tree. William Tell
and his lucky arrow. Orchards
of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels.
Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew.
Cedar apple rust. The apple endures.
Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors.
The first pip raised in Kazakhstan.
Snow White with poison on her lips.
The buried blades of Halloween.
Budding and grafting. John Chapman
in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward
Expansion. Apple pie. American
as. Hard cider. Winter banana.
Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet
by hives of Britain’s honeybees:
white man’s flies. O eat. O eat.

Dorianne Laux 

A list. Just so you know, lists can be beautiful, can be poems.

What's Broken

Christian Schloe

What’s Broken

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The slate black sky. The middle step

of the back porch. And long ago

my mother’s necklace, the beads

rolling north and south. Broken

the rose stem, water into drops, glass

knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s

pot of parsley and mint, white roots

shooting like streamers through the cracks.

Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,

the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken

little finger on my right hand at birth—

I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t 

been rent, divided, split? Broken

the days into nights, the night sky

into stars, the stars into patterns

I make up as I trace them

with a broken-off blade

of grass. Possible, unthinkable,

the cricket’s tiny back as I lie

on the lawn in the dark, my heart

a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.

Dorianne Laux 

This cataloguing of broken things is mysteriously moving. Is it the way little broken things are described, and seem to intimate much more (different kinds of brokenness - by over-use, accident, or growth, to name a few)? And broken things that are beautiful - the sky and patterns of the stars. I love that image of the woman lying on her back tracing the stars.  And then that remarkable moment at the end, where she describes her heart as " a blue cup fallen from someone's hands".  I think about that over and over, what that means. Fragility. Disregard. A very significant thing described as something small. The fact that she is lying down and that the cup has fallen - all these echo each other and amaze me.