NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2013 - Page 52

By JENNIFER FOERSTER Apple of My Eye 1. 3. I am watching my reflection in the dark and drafty window— Uprooting the body was effortless. a crow on a crown of cedar cawing out for her other wing. 2. In the drooping orchard, plump pomegranates. I am watching the crows’ broad wings rising slow over branches, beaks pecking into white flesh. It is late November. My stomach is a stretched canvas of winter where birds spit skin onto the browning grass. Because I called her aloneness, the word on the tongue, the same word as watercolor, desert-scape, taupe line—the many shades of stone. Because I slipped across the indistinct shadow. Couldn’t make out the black rock from waters after twilight. Make sound as you cross, the little girl called barefoot four stones ahead of me— You will be safer if they can hear you coming. 50 I lay beneath the frozen limbs thinking of pomegranates— of what it would be to be inside a bed of glistening crimson seeds as a tongue slides over me, breaks me into juice. Because I woke with no word from the stream beneath my skin—a child wrapped in the net of my breast. BRN-FALL-2013.indb 50 9/13/13 12:48 AM