Ophelia Hu Kinney

sour apples – she

sliced them for me, a

snack – large slices, on

a yard sale saucer.

tough-skinned and green, no

blemish, no spot, they

burned their way down on

an empty belly.

early you learned there’s

no puckering no

squinting no faces –

this is sweet, she said:

this is an apple.

you forget there are

other apples and

other kinds of sweet,

names like blush and pink.

there they are on the

shelf, shined and pouting.

yes you see and you

don’t recognize them.