discount apples 

i want to be told i am still edible 
even after the rot. i want to be 
cored & sung to. made into 
a sickly sweet cake or used to lure
the pigs away from the edge of the world.
i have always been a disciple 
of the discount sections at the grocery store.
when i see my brother we compare deals.
he shows me old valentines day candy 
& i show him bags of apples. 
holy brown trampolines pooling
on their flesh. so much still good.
ringing white flesh. soft skin. 
the trees they came from sleep on daycare mats 
& dream of their fruit. in order to survive
i think we have to imagine our seeds
as always somewhere better than us.
a grove on the moon. limbs heavy with sugar. 
i return always to the produce aisle's neon light.
an inverted halo. my dad used to work in produce
for years. he sorted away the unsalvagables. 
the brown bananas & the wormed apples.
i cut off the worst spots with a pairing knife.
process my bags of gala apples. 
feed those bad bits to the chickens who 
delight. i don't want someone to do this
to me. i want them to place me in the sink.
wash my face tenderly. look
at my ugly parts & still eat me whole. 
arsenic teeth & all. i do not do this. 
instead i eat half apples until 
they are gone. the sound of the grocery lights 
still buzzing like a swarm behind my eyes.