I’ve overthought my father’s imminent death as one does
gravity in the invisible air, in the rain’s angle. Next time
I see him, I’ll ask my father what an apple tastes like,
and because he doesn’t have a memory to answer with,
the apple will distill between us like a first word. Next time
I see him, I’ll ask my father what an apple tastes like,
and because he thinks it’s a bomb wrapped in red paper,
I’ll try again: another apple, another apple, another apple.