POEM: The Apple Of The Eye Is Usually Bruised

The Apple of the Eye Is Usually Bruised

I am saying Goodbye again—

As though goodbye is a door

and not the hand returning

to the same cold knob.

How many of us leave,

then return to the block

to see whether the house

has ever come to miss us?

I know.

There is nothing new under the sun.

Still, every morning

the sun drags its gold razors

across the waiting wound

and calls it Dawn.

I have dreamed of better rooms—

windows without fingerprints,

beds that do not recall

the weight of what they're missing,

a mirror that does not see

the last face standing before it

like a dead tenant

who can't move out.

But there is a hunger that repeats,

wearing a different mouth each time.

Only the same orchard

Carrying another season.

Only the same root

flowering under another color.

I am saying goodbye again.

How many of us say it

with one breath still held?

How many wave from the train

while wishing the train

will break down?

How many of us call someone

the apple of our eye,

not knowing the ache in our teeth

for the sweetness we were named for?

Even spoiled, the apple shines.

Its red skin keeps the evening.

Its sweetness darkens quietly

around the worm.

And still we lift it to our mouths.

And we call the rot a blessing.

And still, we bite near the bruise

and let the sweetness lie to us.

But tonight I am.

Tonight I'm putting it down.

Let the worn sun rise

over the salt-white ruin.

Let the window stare out

without me.

This is my hand waving—

not a white flag,

not a plea,

but the moon in its darkest hour,

when every eye has gone to sleep—

finally alone enough to be free.

I am saying goodbye again.

This time

I don't turn around

to watch myself disappear.

Marni Fraser

05.2026

XII:XI P.M.

Little Suns | 0704.2014