This apple I hold with both hands
& step toward the sun
rising my temper out
of the earth. I hope to go
back inside for a few hours, light
my way into your center
parts. Each time I reach for
the apple, my fingers crush
& bend into each other like
a centipede trying to make
my dreams feel moist. The way
you answer every phone call with
another word for hello. What
are we doing here? This empty
mattress turned inside out & my
coils are exposed as well. For each
day I am naked & putting this
mirror to the window for you
to see exactly what I mean
when I say these
are not days exactly. Not minutes
but instead a pruning of less
than fruit. Which is what we are
to each other, I mean. I cut
myself open. I have not
one seed. You have exactly
three. My jealousy erupts
into something green & peeling
from my lap like the anchor
I never dropped into you, but
you see me there. Don’t you?
Under this desk I have hidden
for two months. I have tried
at shadowy. Have failed
at being wonderful. My hair
gets darker each morning
I look outside & see him. The field
goes on for what seems forever
but it’s not forever enough. Enough
I’ve had of rainstorms & no
flowers on the desk I am under. Under
you I died five times
last night. Don’t wake up
without me. Dream these
days up a little for me. I have
no window to find you.


Author Image

Alexis Pope is the author of the chapbook Girl Erases Girl (Dancing Girl Press, 2013). Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boxcar Poetry Review, Columbia Poetry Review, Anti-, and Sixth Finch, among others. She lives in Ohio where she co-curates The Big Big Mess Reading Series and is Contributing Editor for Whiskey Island Magazine.

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