24 August 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 2

The Apple and I

by JEN CURRIN

A lapse in judgement.

Bread-like, god-like.

We had to hate for a time, and then—

Her dress left the window.

They're a couple now.

Penis, do you have an answer?

*

Like your dress, the lime one.

I watch two workers steal the sun.

Let's repair it.

With residue of spices, it's you

who knows best.

It's not to exist.

*

Say salt twice and kiss me while the seals are watching.

Overheard: Like wearing clothes on a beach!

Overhead: Two workers, two watches.

*

As fig to plum because underwear

is stupid.

The night as question.

In question I wore little else.

*

Fruit (picnic)

Fruit (vertigo)

*

On the night a question

a park where we argue

I buy you a firework, I abandon you.

*

lover's alphabet

spoon alley

I just saw your eyes alive yesterday.

*

Just once after breast surgery.

I brought sugar cookies and self help.

Dialogue: Porn as breath.

In this way I was both kissing her and cooking dinner.

*

Of doors and red-eyed windows,

the senses before sight.

I became specific

in my body.

The lump of blankets

under our feet.

A house silence like wine on paper.

I made a lantern to the sound

of her stirring.