Apple of My Eye

Apple of My Eye

for an old mother in a cupboard

“ . . . there is an old, deeply rooted suspicion, most obvious in 
certain poets and in mystically inclined philosophers, that words
 are essentially inaccurate and unable to convey whatever matters
 to us most.”  —Ben Ami Scharstein, The Sound of the One Hand,
 translated by Yoel Hoffmann

Every time she angried up
She seemed to bite off her lip
Sharp-clipped words she’d spit out
Like apple seeds that hit you
And stuck in your eyes
Where trees grew as you did
And as the apples turned knotty and sour

And fell at your feet,
She told you you were a dreamer
And that apple trees don’t grow in someone’s eyes