From the East
The apple was a world.
I gripped it in my hand,
turned fourteen
to spring’s cold and tidy house,
its maps of vein
its flush of seas
its first fine wrinkles
but it must be eaten
the seed torn open so it flies,
unearthly flower, rooted in
the orchard night, the western skies.
Huge and white, whole winter’s fruit,
Jupiter and Venus rise.

Alison Brackenbur

If you have any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them

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