Apple Moons

For Domby

soft crumbs of salted crackers peppered

              across the wooden surface, where grandmother

                            sits at the table. red nails

              grip the glossy flesh of the gala and she raises it to her lips.

I can smell the wet saltiness of the softened saltine,

              she swallows – crepe skin undulates as she moves. grandmother

                            stands at the apple tree, scarlet gems hanging,

              swaying in Alabama summers, crooked feet in the feathery grass

mash the spoiled fruit into the clay. grandmother

              lays in the bed, wisps of white curl on the sheet

                            and crimson nails nestle in the linen – apple moons curdle

              on paper and crumbs soak in the unfermented wine.