Gedicht
Ange Mlinko
Classical Apples
Classical Apples
Classical Apples
Are you sincere? When wind and light contrive
to give an impression of one tree clapping?
At the farmers’ market it’s one twist of the tourniquet
—on sunlight—before it’s all turnips
Ichor thickened in the flies
The nocturnal encroachment
Nails digging into gardening soap
with hands wired to carve hearts
The butterfingers
The existential potholders
The word “empty” mistaken for “tempting”
in the speed‑dreaming of the harried mother
Steps down an auricular staircase
with a Greek foot’s architrave
with a saint’s foot’s cornice
Imported torts is a bit of a misnomer—they buy cakes
—pumpkin, which doesn’t seem to me the sincerest of gourds—
(Orange, schmorange
pigeons, eons)
Here are your unwaxed classical apples, meaning out of reach.
The creek, a classic finish line, drops the ‑ish, freezes.
© 2007, Ange Mlinko
From: Poetry, Vol. 190, No. 3, June
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
From: Poetry, Vol. 190, No. 3, June
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
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Classical Apples
Are you sincere? When wind and light contrive
to give an impression of one tree clapping?
At the farmers’ market it’s one twist of the tourniquet
—on sunlight—before it’s all turnips
Ichor thickened in the flies
The nocturnal encroachment
Nails digging into gardening soap
with hands wired to carve hearts
The butterfingers
The existential potholders
The word “empty” mistaken for “tempting”
in the speed‑dreaming of the harried mother
Steps down an auricular staircase
with a Greek foot’s architrave
with a saint’s foot’s cornice
Imported torts is a bit of a misnomer—they buy cakes
—pumpkin, which doesn’t seem to me the sincerest of gourds—
(Orange, schmorange
pigeons, eons)
Here are your unwaxed classical apples, meaning out of reach.
The creek, a classic finish line, drops the ‑ish, freezes.
From: Poetry, Vol. 190, No. 3, June
Classical Apples
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