Bruised Apples

The hours come without warning. Whistling tea kettles. Slaves to the flame. The molecules drawn to each other. In a science only touch can explain. These years. Empty houses. In bloody slabs of beef. Rotting. Carcasses torn from lush fields of wheat. The hunger. The growl of neanderthal ancestors. An obsolete madness. Which drives us still.

Sifting our wicks through the oil. Drops of kerosene. Suffer the button. On falling elevators.

This world. Infested with people. Smothers out all other things. This virus. Humanity. Has no vaccine.

I cut her out of cardboard. Imagining something much more realistic. But she was jagged and lacking dimension. Impossible to discern from any other woman.

I gave up. Letting the rain fall on her. Watching as the threads came undone. She cried that she felt it. As the sun snarled away what was left.

I spit on the paper. Trying to extinguish the flame. Surprised when all the ink was gone.

Bruised apples in her basket. The only future she can trust.