Kindling

Canvas, glass, wood, books—
I should have let it all burn.
Scattered, eclectic inanimates
without sense or reason.
The books were a nightmare, you said,
as well as the picture you'd painted of an apple split
down the middle to reveal its star—
I thought you wouldn’t know there is a star
in the center of an apple unless you were shown
a thing like that, or maybe
if you were distracted: looking out the kitchen window
with fruit and knife in hand, the gladiolas more vibrant then that last time
you remembered seeing them. You forget
that you were about to peel the skin
and without realizing—

you sliced it.  And

just like a child, you stared
at the star you created,
its almond-shaped points like tiny mouths, eyes, or
something other than half an apple
balanced proudly on your palm
until the adult in you whispers:
It’s already begun to brown,
and you toss it
into the garbage
to be burnt
with the rest of the trash. 

 ©  Maria Lupinacci 2005