"Michigan apples are an industry," he said, knotting his tie, and she knew it was true.
She'd seen them, tens of thousands of them, on conveyor belts like extras for a crowd scene in some biblical movie,
Or jammed into crates,
Like juicy red gunslingers locked up in the town jail.
You bite into one, hear the crunch, and let the juice run down your chin.
You slice them and bake them, with cinnamon and love.
You pitch one to your brother and watch him grin as he swings hard--
When apple meets bat,
It's a mess
And it's funny.
"Strength lies in emotional control," he said, but she knew it was bullshit.
Standing behind him, she squirted Barbasol onto his head, and giggled. He looked ridiculous,
Like a macho ice cream cone.
"What?" he demanded.
"Nothin' babe," she replied and started shaving his dome.
You tuck it behind your ear, girly-wise, and they're half yours already.
You let it hang down, you toss it, you let it go messy, and voila,
A slave at your feet.
You curl the ends around your fingers and you,
"Ow," he says.
Eve and Delilah
Meet at the movies, the noon bargain matinee.
They are watching "The Time Traveler's Wife",
And they are sicker than fuck of being blamed for every little thing that goes wrong.
On the screen, there is a pile of abandoned clothes. The main character has gone poof again.
"What if we could disappear like that?" Delilah whispers in Eve's ear, her lips light and soft.
There are white blossoms on the trees lining the drive out of the mall complex.
The top on Delilah's yellow VW is down,
And the day spreads out ahead of them like
Apple guts off a bat,
A movie not yet seen,
Or the glorious, wind-blown, fucked-up 'do of angels
As they fall out of or into Paradise.
Art by the fabulous Alphonse Mucha