White Apples

when my father had been dead a week

I woke

with his voice in my ear

I sat up in bed

and held my breath

and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again

I would put on my coat and galoshes

This poem appeared in White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems, 1946-2006 by Donald Hall, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2006.

10.09.2026

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