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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.
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Robyn Sarah was born in New York City to Canadian parents and grew up in Montreal, where she still lives. She wrote and enjoyed poetry as a child and is the author of ten poetry collections, two collections of short stories, and a book of essays on poetry. Robyn is presently serving her tenth and last year as poetry editor for Cormorant Books in Toronto. Her last poetry collection, My Shoes Are Killing Me (2015), won the Governor General’s Award for poetry — one of Canada’s highest literary honors. Sarah's most recent book is Music, Late and Soon, a memoir to be published later this year.
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HELEN P.:
I AM GOING TO MY FRIDGE AND EAT THAT AVACADO, THANKS ROBYN. HELEN P.
Posted 07/27/2011 09:03 AM
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dotief@comcast.net:
Yum!
Posted 07/27/2011 08:54 AM
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KevinArnold:
Shell nests shell . . . flaunting repetition and even parentheses, breaking out.
Posted 07/27/2011 08:09 AM
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