Later Than I Thought

The artichoke has gone to spines.
The window sees only a whisper
of last night’s rain. The ladder
leaning on the apple tree
has long been taken down.

Do you remember harvest?
Did you adore the apple, ashes
beneath its rosy skin? I watched
as you bit into it, let the juice
run down your chin.

Backyard grapevines, gnarled
and grey, a winter afternoon.
Between the house and the road
that leads away, absence
grows like knotweed.


Photo used under CC.

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About Author


Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in Rattle, North American Review, Nimrod, Rhino, Tar River Review, Slant, Atlanta Review and many others, and are included in several anthologies. Her books include Fugitive Pigments, and Flour, Water, Salt (FutureCycle), Embers on the Stairs (Moontide), and No Longer at This Address (Aldrich). She loves light of November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.

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