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, Nimrod, American Poetry Review, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments and Flour, Water, Salt (Futurecycle Press), Embers on the Stairs (Moon Tide Press), and No Longer at This Address (Aldrich Press). She has been a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee.

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