Victorian Violet Press
From Apples to Apple Butter
Our large pot,
the one that was your mother’s,
my grandmother’s,
bubbles with white apples
and sugar,
Ropes of green and red skins
pile on the counter
We hunch at the kitchen table
words rising and fading like steam
under the hanging light
which brightens
as the day outside darkens
We take turns
mashing the apples,
speaking,
stirring the mixture,
Streaks of beige
oxidize
to brown inside the pot
The pulp burps and splatters,
our words slow
and deepen,
Murmurs and apple scent
float through the kitchen:
the table creaks
the burner clicks
the mash thickens
All the apples
peeled and sliced,
Hours later reduce to
a thick, dark spread,
All the stories
spoken,
the best parts repeated.
Sandy Green