julianbleach

Yvette was French, but she was also Canadian.
For most of her life she had been two things.
The Angel & The Whore,
from the Statton Island Shores.
She carried breadsticks in a bag on a bike with cane.
A little cane basket built for bags.
From the markets which she bought the bag she rode,
down Raglan Hill to a little crossing by a stream.
Streaming and screaming she rode,
free as a bird, and light as a feather.
Till she measured across the crossing
by the stream in small delicate pedals.
Medals she wore across her breast,
Her chest heaving.
As she was leaving the stream behind,
She caught a glance, A second chance,
Shaded in the tree.
An apple so red,
She had read about such things before.
Plucked from the tree,
Luck came in threes,
In the shade of the Apple Tree.
For most of her life, she had been two things
The Nurse & The Patient
The Sinner & The Saint
For now though, Yvette was just a girl,
Eyes like pearls, under the shade
Her day had been made,
By this here Apple Tree.