Apple Juice

Appleby Monique Moate

 

The judge’s boots are thunderstorms
Clapping at my brains
Tying up both hands
I can’t feel my lungs

She puts an apple on my head
My will crumbles and I find
To the sardonic judges abound
I am everything

The judges loom down now
With their quivers, arrows, eyes
I’m shaking all over, I’m hopeless
I hear the strings go twang
Now streams leak my face
Before there’s certain pain
Maybe I should take a peek…
For I’m certain I taste apple juice

 

Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *