Leave it on the counter for a week,
though four would be better—
it isn’t going to rot.
You are looking for something
deeper than “crunch.” Wait.
Wait till you feel the give and wrinkling
of your grandmother’s arms.
She would have known an apple like this, its modest russet
and rough imperfections, its taut heft growing easeful
as its acids and notes of anise concentrate.
Roll it across your face—
lick it.
Press it to your nose and catch its bright aroma
rising in the heat of your grip—
explore the stem’s deep infolding and soft invitation.
Since when has anything this fine
touched your lips?
Someone else’s hand circled this fruit
before plucking it from the tree.
Imagine when they thought
this one.
