I do love apples:
how they bite back,
how they resist. Their
snap and thick punch.
How all that fight
illuminates their sweetness.
Sometimes I eat
two apples, one right
after the other. I eat my fill
and feel ready, taking on
apple-warrior-soul
as armor.
Oh, come on, you say,
all this silly talk of apples
when there’s a war on —
talk to me of bullets or
barricades or dark swords.
Talk to me of fire and
surging masses
pressing forward toward
victory.
I say that I know that some prefer
red meat before their battles.
Some tear into flesh
and sneer at those
who cannot or will not.
I have neither fear of meat
nor any distaste for it — but
call me what you want:
just give me an apple
with which to face
any given Goliath
and I’m ready — even if
when my time comes
all I can do is slip it
into my sling and take aim,
I will do that
with a singing, snapping
red tang to my attack,
and after, whether or not
I survive, there will be
peace in my apple-full belly
as I hope there will be peace
in yours
regardless of what sustains you
through battle.
