SELECTED POEMS

Apples

Today my son,
not yet two,
learns a new word.
“Apple,” I say,
offering him
a piece.
He listens,
then replies
slowly–
“Arr-pul”,
his first time,
the word curling
like a strange
new taste
in his mouth.

Later he will
run to the windows
calling arr-pul,
arr-pul
to the birds outside.
In the afternoon
it will rain
and he will raise
both palms
to the clouds
solemnly declaring
arr-pul, arr-pul.
Everything will
be apple
for the day.
In two baby hands
he will hold
a grand new word
and offer its
sweet freshness
to the sky.

by Gilbert Koh
from Two Baby Hands (2009)

 

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