Three Strange Angels

Apple:

This morning was no different
- salted wind met sprained metal,
moistened breath sliced by hard edges.

But saline dew softened the unrelenting
iron with reddish-brown blisters.

The man walked through the junkyard
- again reminded of his life,
the corrosion of time, and carelessness.

Around his worn hands curled soft fingers.
His daughter looked up at him,
and he saw hope in her eyes,
remembered why he called her “Apple”.

She, the seed of beauty in his life.

(For my teacher Ramon, who reminds me to write.)

On writing.

Tell the truth.

Could I curl the four corners of this white page to hide myself within them? Like a sterile cocoon I’d be snow blind and unable to see what lives beyond.

There’s no retreating from virginal paper. Crisp. White. Open. It waits for you. Like creditors you haven’t paid, promises never kept or the lies you told yourself to feel better about not writing.

Your deception may be good enough for others, but not the blank sheet. You cannot fool the unborn with smart words, a quick turn of phrase or other pretenses. Here you meet each other on equal terms.

Naked. Vulnerable. Alone.