I have apple skin.

Hips-- course from crates
toss me like a worn baseball--
you won't taste the bruises
in the pie crust--
simmered down into a sauce.
I've got cinnamon under my cuticles.
Never mistake me for a Mutzu--
I was only ever a Macintosh--
microwaved in closeness of
October afternoons-- warm
like marshmallow innards.
He thought I was a red delicious
and I used to think of myself
as golden--
Stuck a sticker on my forehead 
for the shelf-- never pick
me from a tree-- for get I had
a steam and a mother like
every other fruit.
We all could have been Winesap
of Gala or Ambrosia if
we tricked ourselves for long enough--
bodies filleted at the market.
I could have been Fuji
honey crisp-- sun crisp--
tart granny smith waiting for 
a cup of sugar, butter, and simmer--
I could have been. 
But I am a Macintosh-- wrap
myself in corn husks
and dry sun.