47.2 - Spring 2018

Page 197

Soon, the poet squinted at a pear tree, the heavy bladders of the apple’s brothers. Then at the pear blossom—o, iconoclast— and for once, it stood for nothing. The last poem invented the epigraph: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” So the poet wrote of her father. No plums this time—nothing as literal as that.



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