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Lunch
by
Robyn Sarah


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Halved lengthwise, hollowed,
salted, dressed with lemon –
the stone discarded –
I eat an avocado
avariciously, and with
immoderate relish

wielding the spoon
scoopwise, each smooth
green scoop sliding
across a palate primed
for the fruit – scoop
after luscious scoop, till

the bowl of the spoon
outlives its usefulness
and the spoon, turned sideways,
yields an edge
to scrape the hull
clean of the green

left clinging. Scrape it close
as a shave, small arcs,
scrape, scrape.
(Spoon licked clean.)
Then: shell nests shell, each
a stacked green bowl.
(A neat finale.)

From Questions About The Stars (Brick Books, 1998).
Used with the author’s permission.

Purchase a framed print of this poem.

Robyn Sarah was born in New York City to Canadian parents. She wrote and enjoyed poetry as a child and is now the author of nine poetry collections, two collections of short stories and a book of essays on poetry. Robyn is the poetry editor for Cormorant Books in Toronto, and lives with her husband in Montreal. Her most recent collection is Digressions: Prose Poems, Collage Poems, and Sketches (Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 2012).

 

 


Post New Comment:
HELEN P.:
I AM GOING TO MY FRIDGE AND EAT THAT AVACADO, THANKS ROBYN. HELEN P.
Posted 07/27/2011 09:03 AM
dotief@comcast.net:
Yum!
Posted 07/27/2011 08:54 AM
KevinArnold:
Shell nests shell . . . flaunting repetition and even parentheses, breaking out.
Posted 07/27/2011 08:09 AM


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