The Apple Of Your Eye

I am an apple, waiting to hit the ground,

not wanting to be damaged or bruised.

Fragrant and fragile, you could probably smell

the stench of need from the street.

You strolled into the orchard one day

and you picked me, the sinuous tug of wanting.

I keep asking you to wash the stain  

from your hand but it’s impossible.

How could you keep it clean,  

when you hold a whole heart

between your fingers?

Sometimes, you think you hear a whimper or a yelp.

Each sound unique, with as many whorls as a fingerprint.

The truth of things falls like snow,

silently and softly into your life. 

The Typewriter

I loved the sound of the punched keys  

and the chime of the margin bell.  

A heavy brown Adler on a small side table.   

I didn’t know it was a serious thing,  

I thought it was a toy. 

“Mind yourself, don’t let it fall.”   

I can see Daddy from the window,  

as I pull myself up on the chair.

Saturday morning and he’s outside in the garden.  

Mammy is gone to town since early morning.  

Sometimes, I wonder aloud “why can’t I go?” 

I want to write a letter to Granny,  

who is in the kitchen making bread.   

I am five and a half years old.  

I always say the half matters 

and Granny laughs.   

I rattle out words with a satisfying sound.  

The letters are inky, blurry and bold.  

Determined fingers push the black keys down.   

I can hear myself. 

I can see myself.