ISSUE 3 · FALL 2009




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Copyright © 2009

Mary Marie Dixon

Apple Parable

MARY MARIE DIXON

 

 

An angel’s teeth marks

the peel of a granny smith,

the precise blush, her incisors so white

on the crisp of green. Meditating the gospels,

she lamented the fig tree’s unfruitfulness as tart

juice dribbled her chin; she ground the white meat.

In the mold of her teeth on the apple: <> a worm.

Tree-bound angels peruse scripture from fresh saints

who spring new-blown from the ruach. Saints under

trees whisper secrets known to prophets and drinkers

of the vine. On the apple, every one of them traces

the angel’s mouth, but none notice <> the worm.

Wind-born saints dream of trees with red fruit

and wonder at the ever greenness of the

granny smith.

They perceive

something amiss

in the absence

of red, and think

on the fig’s unfruitfulness.

Cursing, for faithlessness, the burdened tree,

in spite of the abundance of apples, still and all,

they neglect to curse