I will always miss grocery
shopping—what a word, what a
world where one could shop, verb,
optionality as its own activity, every
store a canvas of choice. Recall:
the last moment Home could be seen
from the viewfinder, blue yet parched,
one last marvel at the size of the beast
we emptied, body of which we tamed
but anger of which we could not
temper. I will back the grocery
aisles at night. I will back the incisive
fragrance of rosemary. I will
back the many ways to say apple: Red
Delicious, Cripps Pink, Cosmic
Crisp, Honeycrisp, Granny Smith, Fuji,
Gala, Jazz, and my tongue aches
with the memory of excess. How
common. Eaten. Never clean
to the core, left ringed with flesh, thrown
casually somewhere non-arable. The next
apple I eat I shall swallow. I will go back
one day. And the apple will eat me.
Poignant and beautiful.
Lovely.