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Bowl of fruit.

A bowl of fruit so large a pumpkin does not fill it. But the pumpkin sits right in the middle -- that yellow glow with the short green stem -- right in the middle of the bowl. Around it, red apples, green apples, green grapes, red grapes, pomegranates, grapefruits, yellow, sporting two green broken circles. Near the grapefruits six wrinkled figs. What a large bowl, said the visiting soldier, wearing a feather in his green cap, what a large bowl. Sh! his companion said. It is not for us. It is for the wounded marine. Sh! she said again as she wrapped her long beaver coat around her narrow hips. It is not for us. But where is the marine, the feathered soldier asked. Where is he? He has not come, she said. Not yet. When will he come? He will come soon, she said, taking out a mirror and lipstick from her bag. He will come soon, she repeated, as she brushed the lipstick on her waiting lips. But I am hungry. I'd like to have some fruit. The lipsticked lady laughed. You would like to have some fruit. Oh, you are a naughty man, aren't you. You would like to have some fruit. Come, she said, dropping her coat on the marble floor. Come. You will have some fruit. You are a naughty woman, he said, as he followed her out of the room. The bowl of fruit glimmered in the dark. It glimmered and glimmered and glimmered. Suddenly the lights came on. A cortege entered. The marine had arrived.
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Author:Zinnes, Harriet
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jul 1, 1993
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