PUNK POETRY: After the End by Mary Durocher

After the End

 

Our apple is rotting;  

worms are burrowing into the syrupy meat 

of the fruit. 

 

I wish I could stop it.

But I’m alone in the apartment

and my grief ties me to my mattress. 

 

I’ve turned into a winter afternoon, 

doomed to crave the honeyed fragrance 

of a once ripe apple. 

 

My joint burns to ash in an empty cup. 

I can’t bring myself to pick it up and inhale, 

to not be an observer.

 

I wish a bolt of lightning would come my way 

and electrify me back into myself. 

 

Our apple is rotting in my kitchen. 

I still hold onto hope for the day

I get up and toss it into the garbage can. 

--Mary Durocher