Gravity’s Gift
by Paul Freidinger
The thread is wound in circles,
within the apple, tightly around
the seed. The flesh is lush, firm,
outer curve of the skin deep red,
form reflecting the eyes looking
in. The fruit on the tongue is
wet, sweet. We spit out the seed,
the secret not fit enough for us
to eat. Dark, dense, and shelled
with mystery, it disappears into
the grass. My heart is wound
in circles of sorrow, swirled lines
of inquiry, concentric and endless
in pursuit of solace. Words on
my tongue placed like communion,
sound, like red wine or blood.
I spit them out into the air, praying
for one to find a ground of mercy,
to sprout into meaning, to become
the flesh on your tongue, mystery
opening before your eyes, seeping
in. Good enough to keep; maybe
good enough to grow and bear fruit
with seeds of its own. A thread
from me to you, a cryptic union,
kept from the many, reserved for
the few. The dead foresee circles
of those awaiting arrival, accustomed
to grief. Bound in blood and sorrow,
born into tears for every tomorrow.
I bite into the apple with innocence.
Gravity’s gift found full of sorrow.
My name is Paul Freidinger, and I now divide my time between Chicago and Edisto Island, SC. I have published over 150 poems in various national journals and am active on the Chicago poetry scene. I have poems recently published or forthcoming in After Hours, Atlanta Review, Bayou Magazine, California Quarterly, Forge Journal, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Heartlands, Poem, Potomac Review, Red Hawk Review, South Carolina Review, and South Dakota Review. I am circulating a collection titled The Things That Matter and have begun work on a second one.
