[Alex Pepple]

Red Grapes


   What fruit arrays by Whole Foods doorway:
   bristled coconuts, quince, plums, gourmet
figs, melons, vermilion mangoes,
freckled bananas, then long rows
   of red grapes—with eight thousand years
   of ripening as our picnic nears,
clustered and waiting for our lunch,
stroked smooth in store ritual, each bunch
   beneath fluorescent’s gemlike shine.
   Here glows what ancients deemed divine.
Your teeth will pierce the plump delight,
your tongue will purple bite by bite.
   Barefoot in wine dance, maidens pressed
   the vintage. Gods and mortals blessed
this fruit—from Olympian feast
to corner market, west to east,
   the same dark juice that quickened blood
   in pharaohs will flow like a flood
across your lips in springtime rush
when vows refresh your lipstick’s blush.

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~~~First revision ~~~

Red Grapes


   What fruit arrays bedeck Whole Foods;
   from bristled coconuts, more goods
throng: melons, vermillion mangoes,
freckled bananas, then the rows
   of red grapes, with eight thousand years
   of culture ripen as our picnic nears
in hours with these clusters for lunch.
Rubbed smooth by store hands, with each bunch
   in fluorescence that gems its shine.
   Here gleams what ancients deemed divine.
Your teeth will pierce them in sweet rite,
your tongue will stain red bite by bite.
   The barefoot maids, in wine dance, pressed
   the vintage. Gods and mortals blessed
this fruit—from Olympian feast
to corner market, west to east,
   the same dark juice that quickened blood
   in pharaohs will flow like a flood
across your lips as spring breathes thick
in vows refreshed by your red lipstick.

------------------------------------------------------


~~~Original version ~~~

Red Grapes


     What fruit arrays bedeck Whole Foods;
     from bristled coconuts, more goods
throng: melons, vermillion mangoes,
freckled bananas, then the rows
     of red grapes, with eight thousand years,
     ripened through culture for our cheers,
prime clusters for our picnic lunch.
Rubbed smooth, with each translucent bunch
     in fluorescence that gems its shine,
     here gleams what ancients deemed divine.
Your teeth will pierce them in sweet rite,
your tongue stained purple bite by bite.
     The barefoot maids, in wine dance, pressed
     the vintage. Gods and mortals blessed
this fruit—from Olympian feast
to corner market, west to east,
     the same dark juice that quickened blood
     in pharaohs flows now like a flood
across your lips. Spring air breathes thick,
vows refreshed by your red lipstick.