Literature
Orchard
Your fingers are guillotines,
purely purposeful machines.
You pluck the apple,
and carve it clean,
find the core,
suck out the seeds.
Take a life
and taste the power,
it's arsenic
and sugar sweet.
You thank God and the devil
with a crooked smile
that the day is young,
and so are they,
and just ripe enough
for you to eat.