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  • Rhona McAdam

Corps de l’article

O red mystery, o berry
of childhood’s branch.
Powder of my school lunchbox,
a fingerdip surprise
for snack time, cherry dust
in a Tupperware nest.
O red iceberg, wobbling
on the tray, perfect
in your thick white bowl,
ridged like a glacial erratic,
mirroring the spoon’s imperfections.
Each spoonful must be pulled
by suction past the lips
to melt and sweeten
on the tongue.
O magical food,
too red to be real.

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