Bosc and Bartlett
pose upright, atilt with little necks
poking sideways to flaunt
their flesh the way robust women
boast voluptuous curves.
No wonder artists love them.
Picasso painted his blue—
all angles and edges, too dangerous to eat.
Vincent chose the imperfect and bruised,
burnished with hues of Provence.
And, my God, Cezanne must have slept
in the orchard, dreaming a plethora
of pears mingling with apples, peaches,
pomegranates; cozy with a ginger pot.
It is true. He astonished Paris
with an apple, with bowls of ordinary fruit.
Once I stood behind a velvet rope
in the Musée d’Orsay with nothing but air
between me and his pears. A soft glow
radiated beyond the frame,
an earthy goodness I could
taste and smell—real and succulent
as these in the museum of my kitchen.
Plucked from the bins at Whole Foods,
all pigments and hues, as if
harvested from the easel.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 4.
Connie Soper divides her time between Portland and Manzanita, Oregon. Her poems have previously been published in Cirque, The Adirondack Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Calyx and elsewhere. Her first full length book of poetry, A Story Interrupted, was published by Airlie Press in 2022.
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