Your indulgences to me are never-ending.
Like when you rinse the apple’s skin
before bestowing the fruit.
You don’t want me picking up germs.
Don’t want me picking up anything in fact
that isn’t you, isn’t your hand fondling
the fruit, holding it under that flood of water,
touching mine gently as the handover is made.
One bite and I can taste your gentleness
as much as the juicy white apple flesh.
And lying in bed beside you,
what do I have to offer you
that comes with so much of myself
and yet is not me.
It’s not seduction when my hand
falls across your stomach,
teases your thigh bone,
while the other brushes hair out of your eyes.
I am grasping this pretend apple.
I’m looking for your most likely pretend mouth.
And here, your scent, your feel, reminds me
of biting into something pleasurable
while assured that it is safe.
The apple is continually on offer.
My pretend apple is the same.
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident. He has been recently published in Examined Life Journal, Studio One, and Columbia Review. John has work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East, and Midwest Quarterly.
Featured Image by Joel Filip