Poem That Wanted to Be an Apple

Wanted to twist oxygen
and light into flesh, one

of many red bells in the trees,
revered as scholars, or gods.

Poem that wanted to be 25% air,
wanted to glad-haunt

the orchard, the bushel,
the bowl on the table.

Wanted teeth on skin,
that good pain—gnawed

to a tight constellation of seeds,
dark database exposed.

Poem that wanted to be
known, to be necessary,

to rest in the palm
of your hand.

-after William Stobb