Ode to a Nerudean Apple

And would you believe me if I told you
that this apple sings?
Green and perfect,
fleshy womb of nature,
gleaming in the light of
a perfect sun,
shining, radiant,
a golden delicious miracle,
with curves hard as stone
and lines soft as silk.
Soon I will bite into you,
bite down into your moisture,
and taste you and feel you,
your pain and your memories,
and you will taste me,
and we will live together,
in the bitterness of your being.
I will tear you to the core,
and you will resonate in my mouth,
sing in every bite,
like a fissure crackling through the centre of the earth,
like a hard pounding moss,
and when I have enjoyed you, I will discard you,
carelessly,
throw you out into the cold,
hard onto long fine blades of wet grass,
and you will lay there and freeze and die
of a broken heart,
and you will never sing again,
your sweet sorrow song,
and you will wither like the leaves in autumn
and with your last dying breath,
you will give your seeds to the earth,
look deep into the foundations of the universe,
and fly.
And you will forgive me too, in time,
but all that is in the future,
for now you are here,
warm and innocent,
gleaming in the plastic elegance
of my fruit bowl