Joseph Kane

The Late Apples

The late apples
grow calloused
on the branch
that, shrugging,
casts them among
their earlier cousins—
ripe with the lying smell
of decay that hovers sweet
above their caramel-less bodies.
But the truth does not stop
the casual humdrum of bees
gathering in the mid-day
ground-apple softness.
They’ve gathered here
because one of their brethren
cares less about
the wind and the weather
than the rest.
He likes to fly.
And he remembers.
And when he comes back he
does his shy dance
to show the others the places
where the earth is most red.
The others love him.
They trust him.
They follow his breakdown prophecy.
But you can only say so much
with a dance,
and he longs to tell them
that there are many more tastes
than honey.

Limes

The limes tumble in your blue bowl
and stand out green against the sand
still clinging to our fingers.

Remember when you made that bowl
from the beachglass we found one summer?
You only kept the blue pieces.

We ate a lime every day that year.
I still remember the squelch they made when opened
to the night’s humid swell,

and your corner-eye smile
during those slow bites
letting the citrus needle your tongue.

J. Joseph Kane is completing his MA at Central Michigan University, where he is the editor of Temenos magazine. His work has appeared in a smattering of journals, including Central Review, Cricket Online Review, Elimae, and Right Hand Pointing, as well as in an anthology entitled River Poems (available on Lily Press).