The sweat on the wrinkled skin
of the autumn apples, the scent
of ochre-crimson apple-pulp, fermenting
in the fireplace, remind me of my father,
a standing skeptic on our summer balcony,
his arms, nude, his sun-lit body, facing
the bronze statue of his physician
colleague, in the swarming city whose
residents he diagnosed with his laser-eyes
and cured, with his compassion,
exchanging eggs, oil, or honey for his
wages in a world hard to glean – tough.

Emily Bilman
from my poetry book Resilience
Published by Matador Books, UK, 2015

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