LOVE POEM: The Apple Woman, by Megan Moss

I peel myself with a paring knife
red-skinned and milk-veined
a fruit bred for rot
the sink fills with curls of me
leaving behind my hollowed core
mother says sweetness is a slow death
i believe her. i ripened accordingly
in the orchard of girls
i was the one the wasps worshiped
hallowed and humming
their stingers like prayers
they bathed me in nectar
crowned me in pollen
pressed the seed into me
and called me Persephone
i did not bruise
i bloomed in necrotic hues
hollow and whole
decaying and divine
men bite and taste nothing but bitter
still i shine, from the windowsill
golden with absence
ready for the next hand
that mistakes me for hunger

Author: poetryfest

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