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?