Bobbing for Apples


Outside the furnace room, united

in the Methodists’ basement,

we were baptized in the ash

tub’s chilly water, white

knuckles grasping our guardian

angel’s hand, wide-eyed,

burning at the edge of our lungs

when the bubbles ceased to rise,

just as our incisors clenched

red to the sweetest flesh

impaled on galvanized steel.


by David Stone


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