crabapple tree
By Sera Gamble
photo by Huie Dinwiddie on Pexels
I.
he makes a fist.
my world splits:
the truth / the thing
that makes it stop.
lying is easy
as slipping
into a silk coat.
but we become
what we practice.
who was he before
his father? maybe gentle
as a rabbit. in my imagination
he even smiles. his hands
plant flowers.
this isn’t a story.
it’s a circle. a machine
slowly eroding itself
forever. this time
I hide
in the closet.
next week
I’ll scream
in his face.
later tonight
he’ll forgive me.
my apologies so silken
I become a poet.
II.
sometimes I have the same dream
every night for a week: it’s spring
and we sit together
under the crabapple trees.
the birds are singing
hebrew lessons.
he’s brought
chocolate eggs.
they are poison.
he eats his
so I eat mine.
eat faster,
he says.
if I don’t
do this to you
what they will do
is worse.
Sera Gamble's poetry has appeared in Washington Square and Suitcase. She also writes fiction, essays, film and television; most recently, she co-created the TV series You and The Magicians. Sera is a first-generation American living in Los Angeles with her husband and dog.
