Love in the Post-God Age
       

Apple of my eye, die as you might, I am
here for drama, here for gasoline and hemlock,
here for the maturity inherent in adulthood
and the imagination hurtful to a child.

Apple of my eye, I am mild if not
miles away, and this is the kind of car
I would drive. This is the kind of unhappiness
I would pilot, given my blindness, given my place.

Dear apple of my eye, erase where we
have been. Make of me a buzzcut.
Make of me a holiday bonus. Make of me
a bin where old shoes and food scraps are thrown.

Dear apple, tear yourself away, gray and
untidy, from this scene. I am only what I've
been and not what I will be. Cross the road
with me, mold in me what's exiled, let's live on.

Let's douse for water. Let's watch
the moon move through its cycles. Let's
cry out in rivalry, in pining, in dying,
trying like the day we were born.

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Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Militello All rights reserved
from Poetry London
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission