Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

Original Sin

It flits in my mind
like a persistent hornet
the image
of that Red Delicious -
the apple that mother sliced
so symmetrically
its lobster blush boasting
a familiar sweetness
her hummingbird hands
arranging each piece
in a lantern motif
in my fruit box for school
which I discreetly dumped
in a bin outside
just before I got home
because I had neither
the time
nor the appetite
to eat it.

high above the refugee camps
the sky races
a sequined blue blur
towards a soulless dusk
dust storms knitting
into the wool
of nimbus clouds
and I feel the rumble
the slow and sour estuary
of bile
and stomach acid
and see in the distance
the future open
bleak and wide
like a fractured sternum
and my mouth fills
as I trace
the fleeting outlines
of apples
in the sand.