Grapes with Seeds
by Anne Fraser


Sometimes she swears
to herself,
berating the fruit,
the way it tries to slip
from her fingers,
the peel,
its resistance to separation -

perhaps it is symmetry
or sweetness
she abhors,
or that
without this task
her hands
will empty,

but for
movement of air,
the imperative
of thought,
chains woven
between the fingers.






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