Frances Cleave

Something deeply spiritual.

The way we fall into one another

so naturally like our love was carved of the earth.

There are star systems

bursting at our fingertips when we touch.

We are in tune.

Our hearts croon the same old song.

The universe planned for us. I know it. I know it.

You, apple, are the object of my praise. I want to fill my mouth with your name. I want to eat you whole.

You are always fresh, like nothing and nobody. You have always just fallen from Paradise: dawn’s rosy cheek full and perfect!

Compared to you the fruits of the earth are so awkward: bunchy grapes, muted mangos, bony plums, and submerged figs. You are pure balm, fragrant bread, the cheese of all that flowers.

When we bite into your round innocence we too regress for a moment to the state of the newborn: there’s still some apple in us all.