Waiting for a Reply

My mother taught me the story of a frog boiling in a pot.

I know it by heart: water heats slowly, frog croaks until it stops croaking.

The final croak.

My own fingers strum the vocal cords of my phone,

drawing out creaks and groans.

Blue bubbles blow across a cracked screen,

shivering in the air,

like apples swaying in the Garden of Eden.

Vipers got me last time, but my pockmarked fingers reach again.

Through the dark foliage,

there’s a banquet of flies:

maggots rise from the flesh of —

Links:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1t5s01j/apples/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/1t5rmrx/display_a_poem_i_wrote_1st_post/

Thanks for reading! :)