i hear carousel apples in the window

with all their mush & their laughing.
this means november is coming 
heavy as wet leaves. 
carousel apples are perfect 
for applesauce you know?
put them to sleep 
with the rest of the children
in the crock pot & wait
a whole day to return to them.
i haven't eaten applesauce 
in a long time but i think about it often--
think about how at school lunch 
they would sprinkle a bit of cinnamon 
on top of a styrofoam bowl of applesauce
& how its sweetness would hurt my teeth.
plastic spoon to mouth. how 
every single memory is about eating.
my mom kept the little cups 
in the same drawer as fruit cocktail.
aluminum foil lid pulled back.
i would press my tongue to the surface
imagining drinking from a great lake
of applesauce. but, 
back to those carousel apples--
they crawl like mice into my apartment.
i run my fingers across their bumpy skin 
& tell them bed time stories. 
their favorite one is about how 
for a few years of middle school 
i was obsessed with baking a pie 
& entering it in the county fair.
i carved all kinds of apples. 
made flakey crusts
& filled them. got sugar underneath
my nails but never entered a pie. the house
filled with pies-- 
so many pies we invited
neighbors to take them. 
the apples like
this story because it is 
a triumph of quantity.
i tuck them into bed with me 
& tell them to be careful 
not to fall off the side
during the night & bruise. i show them
my own bruises from falling 
off the bed at night & they ask me 
what on earth i dream about. i explain 
i don't dream usually 
i just have nightmares.
i eat one of them before bed. i eat
standing up at the counter in the kitchen.
don't worry. they don't mind. 
they're honored to be devoured. 
teeth through skin. 
dull red. white soft flesh.
i swallow piece by piece. eat right through
the middle. seeds buzzing in my chest.
the leftover carousel apples sing.