isle of apples

sometimes i see king arthur 
at the gas station, two iced teas
in one hand. i used to follow him, stubborn man.
i wanted only one thing, a map
to the isle of apples. i read about 
this healing place covered
in apple trees. my mouth watered 
& i started wandering in the dark 
hoping to stumble upon it. i am
not a knight or a king or noble.
i am a snake person, belly to earth
where it belongs. i give in to temptations.
every garden i enter, eden. once 
& only once i caught him. cornered 
the king on a long weathered pennsylvania road.
i am not sure what he finds here. 
we were flanked by broken-eyed houses.
windchimes sung. he did not try to escape
anymore. i wondered then how many
people try to hunt him. beg him 
for fragments of divine. of healing.
i did not even know what kind of restoration
i thought the isle could give me. i was
obsessed with the color i thought the light would give
as it fell through so many branches. ripe fruit. 
i did not ask him though to take me there.
instead, i asked, "what was it like?"
he wept. an old man now. ragged 
in the guts of the world. he said,
"it was everything you would 
want it to be." i think he is my father or
my father's father. i knew then he would
not deliver me. instead though, he removed
a single fruit from his pocket. not a shiny
storybook apple but a little fist in the dark.
he gave it to me. it was not enough 
but i received it. are great men always like this?
mirrors of something beautiful you
cannot see. i do not dream of secret realms now.
instead, i walk out in the fields. i steal an apple
from the neighbor's tree. swallow it whole. 
i still have never eaten the one he gave me.