Grace

16

Stitches

Pneumatic fire engine baseballs
Flying above my head like
Meteors
Crashing
Down to the plastic grass
Stitches in my chest, in my hands
On the surface of a white apple
That sinks, gracefully weighted,
Into the meat of my palms
It looks delicious
I take a bite.
Leather crust with a crunchy plaster filling
Swallow, pick the stitches from my gums,
Toss the crimson baseball
In the air
And catch it before it crumbles