The micro-economics of a (really big) caramel apple
A student gave me a caramel apple
for Christmas, it was plump
and made by her grandmother
with love.
I was eating it in my classroom
with the doors closed,
hovering over a trash can
like a rat.
I didn’t pack anything else for lunch
and the law of diminishing returns
declared that soon, the oversized treat
would bring me no more joy.
But I kept sinking my teeth in, being too sensual,
eating all the way through the core
until it was all in mine.
I even felt her grandmother down there,
yelling up at me through the tubes,
correcting me:
“I didn’t make that thing with love!
You think we live in a world with a surplus of love?”
When you finally build up the resolve to poison yourself
never do it in front of a mirror.
You don’t want to see
all the nonsense, the twisted face,
the vile crashing to the floor.
You don’t want to watch, like a ghost
missing social cues, as your eyes
begin to shake and then glaze.
The same concept applies
when you purchase
a 5:00 a.m. breakfast sandwich
from the gas station, which you eat
in the eeriness of the dark car
because you don’t want to look
at the rubber meat moving inevitably
toward your digestive tract.
I hate her, the gas station employee,
selling me that sloppy protein
off some inept warmer.
Her glossy eyes reflecting the monotone
movie of myself. She tells me to be
a good boy, have a good day, come back
tomorrow. I hate her.
So I return home,
after another day of labor
to cook my last frozen meal in the microwave,
close my eyes, keep them shut,
bring that half-washed spoon to my mouth
and watch as the clock behind my eyelids,
steady as always, ticks onward
in her easy battle—longsword in hand.
A Cow Poem
Just when I thought
it couldn’t get any worse,
I burned the ground beef
I planned to serve
for dinner that night.
Many miles away, the cows
felt my mistake in their hooves
and moo’d to the moon
in splotchy song,
while villainous teenagers
flocked to the pasture,
tipped them
brought that sleepy roar
to obnoxious heights,
where all at once
the windows of farmhouses
and New York apartments
opened wide,
ready to receive
a meal I hadn’t prepared.
Joseph Verhelle is a poet and educator from Rochester Hills, Michigan. He was selected for season 22 of the AWP Writer to Writer Mentorship Program in 2025.
Image: Derek Ramsey, commons.wikiedia.org
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Heavy Feather Review 