Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

The Lone One

In Grandma’s eyes, I am the lone one.
“You’re the apple of my eye,” she says
when out of reach of other ears,
the ears of my eight cousins.
Down, crashes her words since apples
are eaten, their pits spit out.
Still, with wild hope, I drift to love,
her arms my last refuge
in the wild gush of my isolation.