Gertrude Stein, Midnight in Paris (2011)
(so writing. Always writing.)
I’m not exactly pretending this is perfect, but perhapsican inspired me to write a poem about satsumas. I was doubtful but I thought I might as well write as not.
Each sweet segment veined,
split, lip-touched, swallowed.
Wrap-around tissue, purple, I think.
Purple, perhaps. Or purple the trays…
My memory is frail as tissue,
seeing eye-height shelves,
and a floor speckled like a bird’s egg,
and bird’s-egg trays. And satsumas,
ranked, one by one.
Every globe is settled in a nest, wrapped,
stickered, picked out like eggs and placed,
down in a wired basket, borne home,
set aside like treasure. Something for tomorrow.
A present to be unwrapped. Gold,
orange, sweet-scented, sweet.
on the role of misogyny, transmisogyny, and respectability politics in which state violence against people of color makes news.