Widow in Kitchen with Yellow Apple

You burst through the door

wheeling your red Swiss

Army suitcase—how had

you packed all you needed

in that for eight months?

—and I, in my stained yoga pants,

stood gaping with delight

(my little red paring knife

in one hand and a yellow

apple in the other).

You’re home! I smiled,

my face stretching so wide

I’d forgotten skin

could be so elastic,

and as you bumbled

with your suitcase (had

you brought me a present?

your beard needed a trim ... )

you looked up and said,

Yellow? I only buy

yellow apples now,

I almost said but

instead chirped, It’s time

for the new crop of

Honeycrisps! Red, round.

I’ll buy you some red ones,

I said, looking in

your pain-free face, tired

from a journey but

exhilarated to be

home—eyes bright green

—we hadn’t even kissed yet.

It was Saturday,

and I had to stick

my hair in a band and

grab my jacket or there

would be nothing left

at the farmer’s market,

so I almost stumbled

into you in my rush

to supply your wants,

slightly turning my ankle

against the wheel of

your red Swiss Army

suitcase disappearing

against the door so

securely locked: big

white rectangle shut.

You’d been so real each

hair of your beard glistened

with the outside’s cold air.

The hair on your knuckles

gripping the black handle

curled in little squiggles

as if drawn by a fine

line marker: I saw them,

saw them, the point

of my red paring knife

poised at the yellow peel,

you’d been so real.