Apple
Heavy, sharp-edged knife,
downward stroke,
crunching sliss,
thump
onto the cutting board,
and an apple is two hemispheres rocking.
Seeds spill or cling to their tiny wombs.
Juice droplets run.
Rocking slows, stops.
The knife lies beside these two
smooth surfaces alike, so recently one
flesh darkens.
And fuzz, brownish, scumbles the smooth
cut.
The two cuts.
Quick. The knife.
Slice a lemon and let its juice bathe, burn
the cuts.
Press halves together, wrap in plastic.
Tightly.
No air. No more changes.
The halves fit together.
Perfectly.
But with a seam.