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Grape Leaves, and: Walnut, and: Summer Ode, and: Absence

Grape Leaves, and: Walnut, and: Summer Ode, and: Absence Peter Balakian Grape Leaves We trellised you on fences and in our heads as old markers of lost places. We lipped you full of pine nuts, currants, and rice. You, the polymorphic leaf libation for the unchosen, Jesus and Bacchus in one. You who fanned the hermaphroditic flower in the heat of early summer, before we blanched you in hot water softened you to roll and soak. You — the pale green page on which I saw some style of unforeseen events. You were always soft like parchment on which light shifted during long days. Postmarked with scree, calligraphed by silk and hooves. 99 Walnut Leonardo used you to make ink. A friend once gave me a 3-segment you for luck. My mother chopped you to fine gravel with cinnamon and sugar. Leonardo’s cross hatches were the wrinkles of your shell. I followed my mother’s hand across a vague sky on Good Friday; because she made your shaved dust into morning light. Your female estuaries pulled me in. Leonardo found the womb inside your shell— and washed some light into the dark sky. You left a sheen on my hand. Summer Ode Today it’s gray sky green rain Russian http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

Grape Leaves, and: Walnut, and: Summer Ode, and: Absence

Prairie Schooner , Volume 93 (3) – Dec 21, 2019

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X

Abstract

Peter Balakian Grape Leaves We trellised you on fences and in our heads as old markers of lost places. We lipped you full of pine nuts, currants, and rice. You, the polymorphic leaf libation for the unchosen, Jesus and Bacchus in one. You who fanned the hermaphroditic flower in the heat of early summer, before we blanched you in hot water softened you to roll and soak. You — the pale green page on which I saw some style of unforeseen events. You were always soft like parchment on which light shifted during long days. Postmarked with scree, calligraphed by silk and hooves. 99 Walnut Leonardo used you to make ink. A friend once gave me a 3-segment you for luck. My mother chopped you to fine gravel with cinnamon and sugar. Leonardo’s cross hatches were the wrinkles of your shell. I followed my mother’s hand across a vague sky on Good Friday; because she made your shaved dust into morning light. Your female estuaries pulled me in. Leonardo found the womb inside your shell— and washed some light into the dark sky. You left a sheen on my hand. Summer Ode Today it’s gray sky green rain Russian

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Dec 21, 2019

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