I AM THINKING OF AN APPLE WHEN THE STREETCAR HITS AND MY LEG SEVERS and my ribs crumble and my arm is no longer an arm but something unrecognizable, wet and red.
An apple. It was in a vendor's stall at the farmers' market off Powell. I'd noticed it because it was so weirdly out of place, a defiant crimson McIntosh in an army of dull green Granny Smiths.
When you die--and I realize this as I hurtle through the air like a wounded bird--you should be thinking about love. If not love, at the very least you should be counting up your sins or wondering why you