apple 

in the three window days
i sometimes ate apples while looking
in the mirror. i learned so much
about my face. my hunger like
a trash truck in the murky morning. 
shoveling teeth. the neighbors' bathroom
was right above me. i heard him singing.
"lord lord almighty," he said
into his own mirror. i wondered 
about telepathy & if i could 
convince him to eat an apple with me too.
there are those videos of andy wharhol 
eating a burger. i watched them
with a former lover in a museum. 
i considered once recording myself
eating the apple. immediately i closed
the phone camera. i am not that kind
of artist. this was not a performance.
it was a ritual. the floor of the bathroom
was a birthplace of many centipedes. 
once, i fed a piece of apple to the centipede. 
he told me, "i am so sorry for all of this."
i explained it was not his apology to make.
the country has made horrible choices
one after another. this place treats
its choices as inevitable. he carried the apple
to his dark place & i did the same with mine.
outside people had gotten sick of the pandemic.
wore their faces like balloons. the neighbor
had lungs like punching bags. summer sung 
hairless in the sink. i grew tired of 
the apples. i do not think i learned all 
i could. instead, i think i reached a precipice
of potentially seeing too much. the animal of
my jaw. my blood, a creek on a bear's back. 
once the neighbor said, "no no no." a long exhale.
no footsteps. he stood there. 
i had not been eating. i rushed to the kitchen.
one sad apple left. i had to devour it. 
had to find a way to share whatever grief
no matter how small, was visiting him. 
i stayed there until he moved first. his steps
like fallen trees on the mountain that peered
down on the little street.