And will these apples nourish my soul

This is a love letter to a bone
woman. I've known betrayal.
The betrayal of a man. The betrayal of a
woman. Betrayal close to home.
Betrayal from far away. Betrayal
and words come to me "lost in
translation". As wet as leaves
after a storm. After the gathering
of rain clouds. I knew betrayal
marking its position in mythic phases.
Deep and mysterious as an
    upturned glass of red wine on carpet.
I knew of betrayal the same

way I knew the self-conscious chambers of a broken heart. Glory
in past times of the overcoming
of pain and suffering. Emptiness
and helplessness. Hopelessness and tears. I knew
betrayal in the flesh. The same
way I knew of religious gatherings
growing up. Its peaks and troughs.
The breakthrough rhythms of stars, night, sunlight that left me feeling
wretched. The same way I knew Christianity,
I knew of the disturbance of betrayal.
And so, betrayal became my wild
Saturday, the experience of floodgate,
story, kite, occupation and to escape
from the hurt I began to write to both
    the bone man and the wrist and elbow woman who had
betrayed me in the first place.