Apple Sauce
by me(whatever)
Oil drips from the handle,
the juice spills through the metal.
Turning the apples to mush,
my mother stirs the sauce over heat,
while it bubbles like caramel, refusing
to settle.
The whole house is humid,
and smells like the almost burnt fruit.
Dark clouds from the window,
spooning abhorrent spheres from soup,
wooden pounder; smashing it down the
chute.
The sun goes down,
the sky is in monochrome.
Glass jars in a pot of broiling wrath,
lids, ringers, and spilled mess,
it feels like home.
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