A Poem by Korey J. Brownstein
There is an apple in his hand,
a juicy apple, red delicious, and crisp.
Every time she reaches for his hand,
she feels the skin of an apple
firm, ripe, and inviting.
He always offers her the apple
and she always accepts it, and then
she reaches for his hand,
and he has another apple
and she reaches for his hand
and finds another apple.
How do I hold your hand? she asks.
I do not know, he answers.
An apple on his tongue, an apple
on his head, an apple in his hand.