She has eight tattoos of apples. Ink ripens and rots, 

each one needled into bitten skin—Cameo, Fuji, Jazz.

 

I feed them plenty, they just can’t help themselves, cottonmouths 

excited by the unwounded flesh of the Pink Ladies.

 

She peels up her hem to show her hip—bone curve of sex 

and cradle—to show where a rattlesnake struck her Gala.

 

She removes a snakeskin boot to reveal knots of seeds

wet with spit, the gnawed core of the original Red Delicious.

 

That one hurt like a bitch, bone and teeth and needle.

She unbuttons and points to one over her heart—Rome.

 

Sighing, she speaks of the luck of Cleopatra, death 

on her breast, a hot and hungry mouth, asps and Empire.

 

Behold, I give unto you power—Hell is what you’re afraid you are

according to the Gospel of copperheads and Jonathans. 

 

The strength of her faith tests her calf with its tongue. 

She closes her eyes imagining what God, what apple.