On the tree, the apples were ripe.

I could only take one so I reached for the shiniest, the largest.

When it fell away in my hand, though, I could see it was rotten

and brown; inedible.

For days I pondered what to do with the fruit—

if I ate it, I risked poisoning. If I threw it away, I’d have

wasted an opportunity.

I sliced the apple into sections so tiny that you couldn’t see

it was laced with disease.

By the dark of the moon I fed it to you

piece by piece.

After all the care I’d taken

how is it that

you were the one to eat the apple

but I was the one, in the end, who fell ill?