Apple Snake
My grandmother held up an apple in her
small kitchen as my brother and I ate our second
bowl of sugar puffs. She washed it, and the water
made its skin glisten; it looked like a heart in her
left hand. With her right she picked up a knife:
I can peel this apple in one go,
she said, eyes pricked like sewing needles.
We watched so intently because our mother
always used a peeler - not daring, violent or ancient.
Grandma grew up Catholic: lashed by nuns,
forced to walk to church in bits of shoe, confess
her sins weekly and bare knees on cold church stone,
raw in prayer. She began at the top of the apple,
and she pressed her tongue against her bottom lip.
The peeling skin formed the start of a red snake that she
tamed with her knife, turning the apple accordingly,
humming Sinatra to charm it. The coil was presented
to us on the table, and we stared, thought it magical,
expected it to squirm.
I’ve still got it,
she said, as she threw her great whorl into the dustbin.
We both wondered what it was she still had,
and if she would show it to us.
Apple Snake was published in The Mays 31.