by Carl Boon

Crabapple

The evil and the good rise
together, blossom while we sleep.
How pretty the adorning,
the way a child might dress
given access to the secrets
of her mother’s closet.

By the time the fruit
has fallen—trampled,
insubstantial—this vista
we longed for, photographed,
will be annoyance, mistake,
a mess to be swept away.

The child who pranced in pink
so properly, so poised,
leaves her accessories
on the floor, a crown to mother
who wipes from it blood-
specks and bits of hair.

– – – – –

Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Lime Hawk and The Lullwater Review. Forthcoming work is scheduled to appear in The Maine Review and The Hawaii Review. He is also a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee.

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