Snow on the Apples

There was snow on the apples

somewhere.

You're at home,

it's getting dark out, rain

makes the cars louder. Nobody

seems to be driving

the cars. Someone has arranged

for them to be there going by,

six o'clock. Someone has made

the sound of air in the room louder.

God? you say, but not aloud. Since

there is no god, you have to be

both you and god. Yes, god says. You

turn over on the couch

and push your face into the dark.

Remember

when we went swimming?

The lakes, god says,

the one that was muddy

on the bottom, and the one you didn't like

that was too small; the one

when it was too cold, but he wanted

to go in before it rained; the one

with the floating dock in the middle

that reminded you of a drowning story?

That swimming, you say. God is quiet

for a minute; god is listening

to the news;

you listen too, even though

you're too tired to turn over

and watch. The story is

something about a fire

and a kidnapped boy.

They're interviewing the mother.

It was her boyfriend, they think,

she thinks. His name is Gerard

Stevens. They must be showing a picture

of him now, in case anyone knows

of his whereabouts. She's not

quite hysterical; why

doesn't she just start screaming

that that Gerard stole her little son

and now she's going to run away

into the local news trees

in the background and

eviscerate herself?

She's telling the tv reporter

in a head voice that sounds like

a piece of slaughterhouse machinery

that she's hoping the police will find her

son. Her voice makes you hungry.

You ask god if god

is hungry, and god is. You ask god

what you should do

for dinner, and god reminds you

that you have turkey burgers

in the freezer, and some broccoli.

You'll get up

with creases on your face.

The windows will be dark. You'll

go take the burgers out

and separate them with a knife.

They'll be slippery and frozen, and

you'll think of driving on an

icy road; and then

you'll put them in foil under

the broiler and start the water

for the broccoli, and take out

a plate for yourself, and get

the salt and pepper, and by

that time, god will have left.

God's going to a dinner

where they're having lamb chops

and veal stuffing with

roasted almonds and fig sauce and

Brussels sprouts buttered with pistachios.

And after, they're going to have

pear clafoutis behind a velvet curtain

and drive their skulls into the center of a diamond.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Nov/Dec 2004
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved