top of page
  • Sneha Subramanian Kanta

Apples

By Sneha Subramanian Kanta


for Appa


Though I believe hunger, I believe more in fulfillment.

The sacred knot of a full stomach. Fistfuls of blue-


berries picked from a mountain, its silent spectacle.

The whole world being remade and going unnoticed.


A whole world can be contained inside a watermelon.

You bring me cut fruit from the kitchen and I know


this ritual by memory. First, sounds of your footsteps,

then cold water running over the still fruit. The precise


movement of your hands with the knife. The enunciation

of fruit against its sharp edge. Every piece falling


in different variables of sound, like plucking tea leaves,

or a rustling as when you walk through sugarcane fields.


On most days, I predict the fruit like a weathercaster will

forecast elements, which is to say there are permutations


in this exercise. In the year when I was away from home, in

a new country, I saw fruits hanging from most trees—


all autumn the redapples falling on a slope near the train station,

and everyone walking past its busyness. If you were


here, you would study the branches and tell me about the trees.

Then, when we would reach home, and I finish preparing


lunch, you would begin to wash the fruit to be eaten after

the meal. Then, fold your palms in praise to God, and sleep


under the wide incarnation of a sky in the yard. The redapples

falling still. The redapples falling still.



23 views0 comments

The Digital Anthology

A luscious collection of videos and poems

bottom of page