Just apples. Just sugar. Just butter. Just whiskey.
But the way they slowly circled the table
again and again, as sweet and as soft
as the gentle talk about curtains and gardens,
boats and brewers — Miss Olive presiding,
decoding fried okra to the puzzled tourists —
the table was lovely and laden. Casseroles,
chicken, pot roast, cornbread —
as much as we could inhale and devour,
all tender and heavy as love long-tended.
But when it came time to clear the table
to make room for cake, a man held on
to the dish of apples: "These should stay."
Ladled onto slices of Italian sponge —
just apples, just sugar, just butter, just whiskey —
dessert became a strange, delicious glory,
the taste of old stories turned new and not-enough.