Craig Smith
Apples
Remember the apples my grandad used to peel
with one hand, with his sharp knife
taking away the layer of skin and cutting
into chunks, feeding himself
with the knife dangerously close to his lips?
Remember how he used to eat the bad ones
and save the good ones
until they became bad; how his room, every room
flooded with apples
from desks and drawers, like a burst pipe, taking the floor
in sweeps to drip down the steep stairs into the stone-floor
hall? And him, sitting like
a slackened spring, head rocking to the knife, slipping
the chunks into his mouth,
the core finally pyred on the fire
alongside the twisted, wrinkled skin?
Page(s) 12
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