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.

 

 

Melissa Cundieff