Good Lord, Green Apple
MJ Gomez
after Ocean Vuong
His heart in his mouth, his heart penciled
into his knuckles, his heart as fingerpainting,
his name a heart
-beat away from the drummer's march of time,
his name chewed up
in a stranger’s mouth, dusted
into stars until it finally turns golden
-green. Green Apple. Starless,
moonless night, don’t lie to me. Know
that to love something is to leave it
shattered. To be ruined is to be robbed of desire,
but still you press the flesh
wound to your lips. The forearm forgets it was anything more
than a canvas
for every shade of red. Good lord,
how can I tell you this?
Give me a word to love
into a palm-scented mess until we miss it
all over again. Give me something to cry about.
Another name tossed to the dust--
Names like rage
& malice, ugly names, potted-lilac names,
names beautiful only when no-one’s left
to remember them, names only we cry over,
names in half
-dead tongues, names like sunset, ruin, rubble,
because something has to die.
Because when a poet needs something to grieve,
he makes up a boy
& gives him a name & takes both away.
Hello not-Max.
Hello not-boy-not-girl.
Do you want another name? Is the soup to your liking?
Could you ever love someone enough
to force yourself back into the shape of a boy?
Don’t answer.
The mystery is what keeps this story interesting.
Keep walking. Green Apple.
For better or for worse, the ars poetica has already come to an end
at its beginning.
For better, goodnight, not-Max.
Keep walking. Keep walking.
The blank page grieves
every inch of me it gets to keep.
If you’re still awake, love, beware the flashing lights.
This means the Sun is rising.
I promise it doesn’t mean we’re out of time.
Just kidding.
Good morning.
Good lord, Green Apple.
into his knuckles, his heart as fingerpainting,
his name a heart
-beat away from the drummer's march of time,
his name chewed up
in a stranger’s mouth, dusted
into stars until it finally turns golden
-green. Green Apple. Starless,
moonless night, don’t lie to me. Know
that to love something is to leave it
shattered. To be ruined is to be robbed of desire,
but still you press the flesh
wound to your lips. The forearm forgets it was anything more
than a canvas
for every shade of red. Good lord,
how can I tell you this?
Give me a word to love
into a palm-scented mess until we miss it
all over again. Give me something to cry about.
Another name tossed to the dust--
Names like rage
& malice, ugly names, potted-lilac names,
names beautiful only when no-one’s left
to remember them, names only we cry over,
names in half
-dead tongues, names like sunset, ruin, rubble,
because something has to die.
Because when a poet needs something to grieve,
he makes up a boy
& gives him a name & takes both away.
Hello not-Max.
Hello not-boy-not-girl.
Do you want another name? Is the soup to your liking?
Could you ever love someone enough
to force yourself back into the shape of a boy?
Don’t answer.
The mystery is what keeps this story interesting.
Keep walking. Green Apple.
For better or for worse, the ars poetica has already come to an end
at its beginning.
For better, goodnight, not-Max.
Keep walking. Keep walking.
The blank page grieves
every inch of me it gets to keep.
If you’re still awake, love, beware the flashing lights.
This means the Sun is rising.
I promise it doesn’t mean we’re out of time.
Just kidding.
Good morning.
Good lord, Green Apple.
This piece originally appeared in Verum Literary Press at https://www.verumliterarypress.com/issues/issue-2-hidden.
MJ Gomez is a young writer from the Philippines. Pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in English, they enjoy playing guitar on hot, sleepy days and stargazing through bus windows. You can find them on Twitter at @bluejayverses !