by H. Nicole Martin
Walking down the street, biting into an apple I mean rending the skin with every toothed grin,
after meeting my psychiatrist who gestured to the tissues on a table
by the wall painted white and pebbled with stones, that I ran my fingers over while
she was out of the room discussing just what antidepressant came next, and then,
that apple and how I clattered the sidewalk, thinking how pleasant it is to chew loudly and ungainly on a
day teased with sun, that if I could be this happy, licking the sweet trails from
my fingers and staring down every lap of sky treading with my boots
while thinking of the phone call from my lover who said I forgive you,
let’s do it again, let’s try. Well,
then I would take any pill in the world, to tooth an apple core and fleck my eyes
to the blue opening there, between the clouds.
H. Nicole Martin is a writer and poet living in New York City. Their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from them., Cinema Skyline, The Lingua Journal, Hobart Pulp, and elsewhere. They are currently working on their first manuscript and doing the crossword in pen. Haunt them @hnicolemartin.