In Autumn

The words I write. I wish they were the worms to the apple, your mind, eating their way to the core. The hammers to your piano striking particular chords, Notes that clash like metal – D#/E E/F The words, I wish, if I could wish for words, would dig and dive through mealy fruit and be found as my mother peels the apple, for grubby hands too small to use the silver knife, hands with sausage fingers, stained rainbow by worked-warm, chewed-on crayons – she will gasp at the words I have written.