Let her not like the apricots,
that’s one way to do it. Just say,
Oh. Or, Hmm. But no.
I question her dislike,
want to serve her apricots so ripe
they have fallen to the orchard floor,
sun warmed and red cheeked
and soft so soft.
I want to serve her the juiciest ones,
the apricots so ripe you have to hold your hand
far in front of your mouth and lean,
or better yet, the apricot you eat as you stand
beneath the tree and offer your mouth
to the branch and suckle the juice, let
it runnel down the chin, the cheeks, the neck,
I wanted to serve her apricots. It is like wanting
to convince someone who likes blue
that instead they should like red.
Why do I defend the apricot?
It occurs to me whole countries go to war
just this way … with one person who says
they know better. One person who knows
what God is like, or what is good, or what is right.
I’m sorry, I tell her, when I call her back. And she laughs.
And I laugh. How easy it is to get lost
on the way to something sweet.