EVE-GRABS-THE-APPLE CMarie Fuhrman She twirls him in her left hand, a small red, merry work of art. It is not just superficial. She holds a bruised apple. She’s read about it in some book: a couple of these Indians up in Connecticut, (before this one), was dizzied by his heat. By him, she is not. “I do own Miss Universe. I do!” He pulls the words like the pin of a grenade and she, she just knows things. “I do understand beauty and he’s not. He’s bruised, opened up to wet white ribs, riddled.” (If Hillary Clinton can’t satisfy her husband, she lifts the stickers from his bruised skin.) But now the apple has moved and he failed. He’ll have to admit that when bodies first touched the leaves of ache in the garden, he moved on her very heavily…”I moved on her like deliciousness. I only know she is the color of something hired.” She wants to grab him by the pussy. The apple pulses. According to the white oval sticker, organized crime is rampant on reservations. No other of the four thousand fifteen fruits she’s held think he might have more Indian blood than the tips of her fingers. He twists the stems of the reservations. Well. They have high cheek bones and somewhere, someone is sitting alone on a porch, Native American, but I don’t know if you would call her than by her teeth. She’s lucky, with her right hand she teaches various schools. Because she is a Native, she is more naked now than any apple has been since. Any two. “I am OK.” That she will tell you. They don’t look like her children: Maybe this apple is McIntosh. Maybe Red. She knows, it doesn’t matter. What he writes…It’s something bad she dreamt, something he gave to her after being an ass. She bets he’d make a great wife. We’re all like a red bird in her hand—she is setting red in us. *In the style of Dodie Bellamy’s “Cunt Up.” Sources used: Various quotes from D. Trump cunted with Natalie Diaz’s “I Watch Her Eat the Apple.”
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