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Michelle A Wait_Spoiler Alert.pdf
Is Part Of
The apple in this poem is not a metaphor for Eve
in the garden. She won’t sit naked staring,
wondering if her children will make the most
of her sacrifice. In this poem, the apple
is just a tart fruit abandoned by its squad
in the fruit bowl. It doesn’t matter if she
is a waxy red, soft-speckled yellow, or green
with envy. When you read this poem,
you should slice an apple in nice fat chunks,
take bites that spill out the mouth.
Don’t wipe the delicious juice dripping down
your chin. Be one with the apple. Sit in her bowl,
quietly imagine a delicious brunch filled with fresh cream,
fluffy pancakes, and avocados for omelets.
Toss your head back and cackle
as the oranges are offered up for mimosas.
Laugh so hard that the bowl rolls, tips on its axis,
but does not spill. Hung over and alone,
write poems about Eve, knowing,
and how you wish you could be more like Lilith—
on top of the world.