The apple at lunch caught my eye
when a bite I took went right to the core
and exposed the little monastic seeds,
one with its brown-black jacket split
by the thin tendril of a new root
fruitlessly probing the flesh for dirt.
Outside it was March—skeletal
trees, shaded frost, sackcloth of grass.
Finished, I tossed the gnawed core
into the trash. It landed with a loud clunk
like an abbot’s knock on a monk’s door,
and interrupted my brief imitation of prayer.
Matthew Murrey’s poems have appeared widely, most recently in Whale Road Review, Poetry East, and Jet Fuel Review. He’s an NEA Fellowship recipient, and his collection, Bulletproof, was published in 2019 by Jacar Press. He was a public school librarian for over twenty years and lives in Urbana, Illinois. His website is at https://www.matthewmurrey.net/ and he can be found on Twitter @mytwords.