Allergy: Strawberries by Kathleen Fellows
The word all by itself:
strawberry
They sit on the ground, small
and out of reach
Forbidden to the grasp and to
the throat
Dimples punched in resemble a
nose
Plagued with giant pores,
courtesy of
The same nature that made the
squatting fruit
Tiny, unless falsely treated
with spray
The taste is not harsh as a
lemon’s is
Sweetness takes precedence
over acid
But the sugar is not smooth
cold or hot
Not like chocolate that is
smoother I guess
That went on longer than I
intended
The demeanor is boastful, full
of pride
As if to say, “You cannot
reach me no
I will bend your back until
it’s broken”
It knows of its beauty and
sweet allure
But also of its tendency to
make
Some throats to close in
thoughts of danger
The strawberry’s siblings are
similar
But none hope to be as deadly
to me
When I was not old enough for
school days
And my sister young enough to
be home,
I took a bite from the awful
red nose
And swallowed nothing but
salt, gasping
Every family member shares
this
But their untouchable fruit
differs mine
An apple, a fig, and
undiscovered
These sweet treats will
always be longed for
At the same time forgotten
for their taste
Has escaped the minds of
those alive
____________________________________________________________________
Early Elegy: Headmistress by
Claudia Emerson
The word itself: prim,
retired, its artifact
her portrait above the
fireplace, on her face
the boredom she abhorred,
then perfected,
her hands held upward—their
emptiness
a revision, cigarette and
brandy snifter
painted, intolerably, out, to
leave her this
lesser gesture: What next? or
shrugged Whatever.
From the waist down she was
never there.
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