Jennifer Martelli
MALUS
Long ago, I had a lover—I hate that word, lover—but he was,
all fleshy, fisted, and banal. We spent a whole day at an orchard
in Topsfield or Ipswich. Three gold chains hung around me, each
with a charm he’d given: a little pepper, a miraculous medal, a ring.
Each an inch longer, lower, from my throat to my breastbone.
I lost my fight with him that night, the pain lasting the length my body.
No matter the apple, I can barely break the skin. I tried to love the apple,
sliced the one offered me down the middle to its star. Dipped my half
in honey from the hives they kept right there in the orchard. I could smell
the smoke and all the too-ripe fruit that had fallen. The animals, too.
No matter wax russet, sugar bee, cox pomona, rome: an apple’s
meat still stings my teeth—my little gum pockets hold the juice
and the pain lasts all day. How could I ever live with such gala tartness?
No matter. Sometimes, near sleep, I still feel that rot in my mouth.