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Any similarity to worlds living or dead
found in this poem or its orphic wanderings
is purely coincidental and should not be inferred
in any way by the reader
even if the soft woman canning autumn fruit
in this dimly-lit kitchen reminds you of your
long-dead mother.
The susurrus of the woman scraping peels
from apples
cannot be connected to your childhood memories,
despite her unsettling knowledge
of your favorite color and the name
of the first girl that stood you up for a date.
This woman
is not threatened by cervical cancer,
and is probably not
headed for an early demise, but who knows?
She is merely
an extra brought into this scene to round out
the homey cadences
of these lines so that they feel oddly familiar.
Go ahead.
Approach her. Let her even words and the
steady bubbling
of the fruit in its clear jars coax you into confessing
your sins, your loves, your abiding fear of death.
Let her wipe the syrup
from her hands and draw you into her
ginghamed bosom,
lull you to sleep with the perfect rhythms of her
heartbeat and the tinsel
reminiscences of Christmases upon New Years.
You will wake
in the same room, but with your nostrils full of
fragrance and fall. Of healing.
Trenton Hickman is completing a Ph.D. in English at the State University of New York at Stony Brook. His poetry has appeared in various journals including The Southwest Review; Many Mountains Moving; River Styx; Negative Capability; and Tar River Poetry.
