by A.J. Huffman

With Apple


I become Eve to your Adam,

though you have no discernable signs

of having recently lost a rib.

I bite anyway,

pierce red skin

with foreshadowing teeth.  I hold

my breath.  You take

my hand and for a moment I wish

it had been poisoned.




I Happened


upon a squirrel in quiet

contemplation of his universe.

Yard and tree holding

limitless possibilities, a fascination

I know all too well.  My breathing

must have disrupted his concentration.

Tiny furred head cocked my way

for a moment, tilted

in adjustive comprehension, returned

to original point of focus.  I

was already assimilated as background,

temporary noise, disregarded.

I envied this rapid-fire assessment,

yearned for the ability to decipher

trivial trash from true treasure, imagined,

for a moment, it was my paws

poised in prepatory flight, yet standing

frozen and fearless, in appreciative awe.






Hollow prophet.

Of darkness.

Or light.


Innocent white.

With blood?

Too permanent.

It smears.

It must be ink.




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