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.
Pen
Hollow prophet.
Of darkness.
Or light.
Violating.
Innocent white.
With blood?
Too permanent.
It smears.
It must be ink.