by Susanne Dubroff
Inconceivable that you couldn’t . . .
that we wouldn’t . . .
Locked in the grey canvas backpack,
nobly holding your juices;
burst twice in enticing diameters,
the way my father might have
peeled before coring, quartering,
handing out love daily, my apple,
my ever absent present . . .
Affronted, you refused to die, wine phoenix
of the astounding compost,
the mouth gaping, the aging, broken face,
mystery, your hushed litany.
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