There dripped, slow or all at once-
A red river from Apple’s nose.
So deep a scar that if he had a surgeon’s hand
And a hundred chances
Apple could not mend.
It dries as always on Apple’s sheets.
The taste of iron on his lips
Stings like liquor from forbidden fruit.
On that bed,
Like the sun starved forum
Where losses are cut
Unevenly in the dark
He bled like Caesar
On the day of his funeral- his coronation,
Enough bloody ink to fill a history tome
-then to make it theatre
And again, the chorus called
’Save your tears for later.
The blood is enough for now.
Now is the hour of composure’
Apple ran his finger along the scar again
Every turn of the moon
And never did he find
That readying wound
With clots heavy,
Waiting to ambush him.
He forgets it wasn’t there
Checks again
He did not know where it came from-
That thing that he could not find
But they never let him wash the blood from the sheets.
And he could not hope to be unbound
Of that mess he never made.
