by Jenna Massey
I follow a step behind my mother
in the produce section. We are heading
for the apples, honeycrisp specifically,
and she insists on examining each one
for me before I bag it and drive it home
to eat alone, fridge-cold and oozing nectar.
My mother appraises the fruit in silence
before handing it to me, and I think: my god,
this is love - how thorough, how exhaustive.
In the street a week before, I walked in step
with other girls, feeling overwhelmed by the
abundance of April greenery around us, by the
bushes sagged with blossoms, by our voices
high and clear. Suddenly I felt a gateway swing
through me; the air wobbled, the sky hung
obese with rain. I felt my throat close and reopen.
I wanted to hold everyone I knew and search
their skin for bruises. I wanted the sky to split
and send us shrieking down the road.
My god, that was love. How inexplicable,