Apples and Cheese

Phillip Ting

Why in the world would they call you an apple?!
Are they blind?!
They see you as a fruit, a word in conversations of farmers
Demoted from a noun to an article,
an offspring of branches and I’m not talking about those family trees
Darling, I’m no Johnny Appleseed
because pomology is not in my command
nor is it in the palm of my hand
and I don’t have to have the patience
to wait for the trees to grow,
But for several occasions
I’ve been eyeing you
out of the all the pink ladies and granny smiths
dangling off branches by the stem
wiggling into those butt-shaping jeans
that are about to rip once the denim legs are fit
And pushing up their breasts,
creating cleavages the size of
National Park canyons, attracting motorboat fanatics
They try too hard to flaunt their superficial anatomy
And end up letting go of patience
And falling to the ground
Darling, I’ve come to realize that you are the
apple of my eye
and I am already dreaming of my fingertips
sweeping you off your stem and
caressing your smooth skin
until I form calluses,
the ripples that make the sense of touch crippled
and I’m imagining my lips
Taking many trips around your globe
And vowing to refuse to let you bruise
And I’m smitten to the point
Where I ignore those who say, “there are other fruits in the trees!”
For you make me believe that you are the
apple of my eye
and I stand with your crisp sweetness in my thoughts
to say that my life
would have not been this fruitful without you.