My Writing

Apple Pie

Brown-golden crust, crumbling at a finger’s touch

poke your pinkie

into the warm dough, hardened by heat

and dusted with layers of crumbs

Be careful; it’s hot, they say, too late and they know it

now your skin is singed and throbbing, but

On the tip of your nail is a soft, gooey 

steaming slice of drooping, dripping apple

Lift it to your lip, but don’t lick

Not yet; it’s not cool, and you’ve earned your lesson.

Instead, close your eyes

Squeeze them tight, no peeking

And with mouth closed, with your hand still

And face closer to the counter than you thought it was,


Soft breath

Don’t exhale

Not yet.

Gather the aura, the cinnamon, the spice, the sweetness

Of the apple’s juices, the gold-tinged glory,

The granny smith

Open your eyes — now scarf!

The piece in your hand is gone,

So is the slice,

So is the whole pie,

You rub your belly, slowly, slowly,

Humming a monotone tune, a cat’s smile on your face,

A tiny pile of brown crumbs on your plate

You run the tip of your index finger along the cool porcelain,

Warm where the apple once was and is now not,

Gather the remains, the escapees, and touch them to your tongue

Your body begs “more!” “no more!” 

You are full

Your stomach is full

Your head is full

Your life is full

There is no more room to fit anything else.

Yet you know

beyond a doubt, yet you will never admit

that the next time your brother 

takes a pie out of the oven,

And the house fills with cinnamon and sweet things,

And he tells you to wait


Just one minute

For it to cool,

You will not have learned your lesson.

You will be full of cinnamon. Full of apple sweet. Full of everything.

Photo by Micheile Henderson on Unsplash