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by R.H. Nicholson

did she at least pluck a ripe

Red Delicious

or a nice Gala

maybe a McIntosh

or a perfect Honeycrisp,

probably not a Winesap, those are hard to come by,

nor a Granny Smith, which are better for pies and such,

but a sweet, juicy variety,

the nectar

running like a mountain stream

down the contours of her arm,

meaty and satisfying,

infusing her with

satiation and


that husky snap

when you take a bite,

on a crisp Autumn day

when the sun is determined,

eeking out the evaporating warmth of goodness,

clinging like a desperate leaf,

a cool breeze harkening the imminent darkness;


or did she even consider the downside,

the mess, the stickiness,

or how really pissed he would be

because the tree wasn’t hers

and she’d been warned-

he’d drawn a line in the dirt

and made his position very clear;


was she really that naïve,

or just careless

or dazzled by the pastoral scene

that smacked of a still-wet Titian?

whatever her excuse, she sure caused a bruhaha


and people just

R.H. Nicholson taught writing for forty years but is now (finally) focused on his own work which has appeared in Ignatian Magazine, Adelaide Literary Journal, Echo Ink, The Blue Lake Review, The Back Porch, Big Window Review and elsewhere. He and his wife live in a small Ohio River Valley town with their geriatric cat Fezziwig.

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