Father

apple
in his left hand,
knife
in his right,
he
presses the knife into the fruit’s crown

at
the first incision a drop of
juice
bubbles out
shh,
shh,
the sound of the knife separating
skin
from flesh, one long lock of hair
lengthening,
falling to the ground
in
a coil.
the
apple, shorn, naked –
then
slicing,
paring
away, bringing meat to mouth
revealing
bony core.

watching
me watching,
yearning
for my own share of sweetness,
he
cuts down a jutting edge
holds
it out to me, stuck
on
the tip of his blade.