It's 3QuarksDaily's fault. They post the most wonderful poems:
Apple peelings
red and moistened
slide from the knife
onto my calico apron
in a large, curly heap.
I listen to the chatter of
my family around the table.
Over and over,
I slice pieces from my apple,
and eat them from the knife
like my father before me,
until nothing is left but the core.
That’s where I like to begin
my story.
by Glenda Barrett
from When the Sap Rises (Finishing Line Press, 2008)
via 3QD
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