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,
Inhale
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
Literally
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
Rachel Sandell 