Critique by Ed Granger


Turning apples in my palm to test
for uniformity of firmness thumb
identifying sponge or divot that says
rot says fine for pie or dumplings not
the glass bowl on the kitchen table
meant for plucking after school
eye weighing shape weighing sheen
releasing three to roll down-slope
for each oblong deemed whole and fit
for snacking orchards trucked east
from Washington through days-long
jolt and shudder the chance of bruise
or bug scar that means the dumpster
behind the store every blemish duly
noted beak-slit flat spot flyspeck
the slow-healing cut on one knuckle.

by Ed Granger

Editor’s Note: This poem’s direct imagery and lack of punctuation underscores the fleeting thought-like narrative. This poem is every apple ever grown and picked and eaten.


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