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.

SPRING 2018

189


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