After Hearing a Woman Say the Heart is the Same Size as an Apple

I.
I begin to consider which one I keep in my chest.
A small pumping Fuji or Bailey Sweet.
I am part pie, part fritter, part turnover 
in bed and listen to the thump thump thump of an Empire,
the whisper of Paula Red, the morning yawn of Sunrise.
II.
When I say I love you I taste cinnamon, 
sugar, my coated center beating 
again. Never bitter, I toss the green ones
to Adam, halve another to find a star. 
O sweet apple of my
          
  unpeeling, pale white
          
  skin appearing in your hands.
III.
My mother picked the low ones from trees 
planted the year I was born.
          
  Every harvest, carrying ribs
of baskets to the orchard, we gathered for hours 
and hours, my hands red, but I continued,
nothing more than a fist opening and closing.

 

© Kelli Russell Agodon