SIMPLE ACTION by Jeff Boucher

It was a simple action.
I picked up the apple hiding behind
semi-see-through bags everyone can get
at the grocery. My other hand pulled out
a metallic table knife for spreading
peanut butter; this time it is crunchy
(though I prefer it smooth). The lid spins with
ease and the knife stabs the viscous substance.
Brown and lumpy, it spreads on the surface
of the apple. I laid it on too thick,
as evidenced by the remnants upon
my lips. After the loud crunch of my teeth
searing through the skin of a ripe Fuji,
I always loved them. Something in the name
suggested Asia and White-Man’s obsession
with what he thought exotic. My own
obsession mirrored in colonials
out for exploitation. A desire
to rend you of all resources and in
that way make you mine, but in the end I
am the one left desolate and hungry,
a fact incurable from this apple.
Chewed to the core, I find no resting place
from the nourishing, bitten guilt.