Cut Apple
By Richelle Buccilli
Cut apple, my son says. He doesn’t understand the work of a blade, why the male cardinal becomes September in a tree, showing off his bold flame like men on the street who whistle at me. I always wanted a son. Now that I have, how do I have a son and make him the kind of man I want for a daughter? Is it in the field of daisies I say to smell, but not pick? Is it in my voice as I comfort him, never demanding to be a big boy, but instead yes, that hurt. Is it the way he already knows to kiss a baby doll made of plastic, her flimsy eyelids and lashes shutting then opening faster than seeing any wrong thing? Maybe it’s in the love I want for myself. The kind that holds promises like a child does a pinecone. Small, and always wrapped in a soft fist. Protecting, but never diminishing. As if the child knows something this primal can always be taken.
Richelle Buccilli holds a BA in Creative Writing and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent, NELLE, Uppagus, Pittsburgh Quarterly, and Rattle, among others. She lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and son.
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What a lovely poem. All well crafted, and I was especially struck by the part about wanting to raise a son who would be the kind of man the speaker would want for a daughter. What a concept!
My day is so much richer for having read this poem. Stunning, beautiful, reaches me in the softest deep place. Thank you Richelle.