Ghost Apples
all morning
they hang from branches
in my news feed—
globes of ice where
skin, pulp, seeds
have vanished, leaving
perfect, polished
husks. How I want
this story to be true,
not hoax — chrysalis
transforming rot
to glamor. I remember
paring my body
down to clavicle and rib,
haunting snowy
porches as my breath
turned crystal, as fat, muscle,
marrow burned in me.
I remember draining
all traces of blood
from the poem, the page,
leaving glass slippers,
eggshells, paper boats.
All night, ghost apples
hang from branches
in my brain. Elegant.
Ethereal. Exquisite.
In their frozen world,
every signpost, every
wire, every orchard
sheathes itself
in ice. How I want
the apples to return.
To bring back the swirled,
mottled skin. The hidden
worm. The sweetness.
The dark, bitter seeds.
SARAH BURKE is the author of Blueprints, winner of the 2018 Cider Press Review Editors’ Prize. Read more.