green apples

Shreya Mukherjee, India

I recall, it was

the arrival of spring
your house smelled of caramel
and raspberries. I silently waited
as you dried them in the oven,
while the quivering sun reluctantly
spilled onto the kitchen floor.
you talked of books
and fancy teacups; ventures
in your little forest (garden)
and silly notes in secrecy,
as we split daisy stems in half
years of longing searing
through our fingertips.

yesterday, I saw a little girl
with braids, pluck apples
in my neighbour's yard
it took me back to the summertime,
green apples were all the rage in town
and I agreed to be your
Guinea pig, the Lamb of God
the pie was terrible, but
I said it was the best I'd ever have.
we knew, it was a lethal game
to play; the curse
of the apples spares no one.
Eves of the modern era
wear crowns of thorn and
savour forbidden fruits
in blinding daylight.

you never liked hopscotch
and I hated your mom
so we sneaked out to The Lake of Misery
weaving blades of grass
and tales of fallacy;
I'd braid violets into your hair
and you'd collect
windfalls in straw hats.
lake-water glistened like tears
watering innocent cherry cheeks,
while illicit lavender buds
swayed gently in afternoon breeze
ready to bloom.

Shreya is an 18-year-old girl from India who loves to write proses and poetry inspired by personal life, books and music. She considers music to be her primary source of inspiration. She adores the colour blue, ocean and the moon. Her dream is to live in a cottage by the sea with a huge, wild garden.