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Column 639

Summer Apples

Intro by Ted Kooser
06.18.2017

One of my favorite poems is Louise Bogan’s The Crossed Apple” which men­tions two species, Mead­ow Milk and Sweet Burn­ing, and since read­ing it many years ago I have ma de notes of the names of apples, a poet­’s delight. In this touch­ing poem by Cathryn Essinger, who lives in Ohio, I’ve come upon yet anoth­er for my col­lec­tion. Her most recent book is What I Know About Inno­cence from Main Street Rag press. 

Summer Apples

I planted an apple tree in memory
of my mother, who is not gone,
 
but whose memory has become
so transparent that she remembers
 
slicing apples with her grandmother
(yellow apples; blue bowl) better than
 
the fruit that I hand her today. Still,
she polishes the surface with her thumb,
 
holds it to the light and says with no
hesitation, Oh, Yellow Transparent . . .
 
they're so fragile, you can almost see
to the core. She no longer remembers how
 
to roll the crust, sweeten the sauce, but
her desire is clear—it is pie that she wants.
 
And so, I slice as close as I dare to the core—
to that little cathedral to memory—where
 
the seeds remember everything they need
to know to become yellow and transparent.
 
 

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We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.