Perhaps the title has taken on an ironic tone...

I'm still doing some major fiddling with this poem but I wanted to put up the original and then the "fixed" version base on suggestions made by a former professor. I always thought this thing was too long and it may still be. I have not done a full line edit, it is a skeleton of what it was before.

First the Edit:
PRODUCE

Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep,
from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.

The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice this absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.

My knees in the air and without underwear on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.

The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.

The hollow spaces—
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets—
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.

The slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of sounds anesthesia could not block.

These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.



Now the Original:
THE UNKINDNESS OF GRAPES

I.
The grapes in the produce section,
bunched tightly in hunks,
don’t notice an absence
the way I did that morning
in my paper dress and hospital slippers.

II.
We sat—
me and the rest—
some reading paperback novels,
others staring mindlessly past the wall,
waiting to hear their name.
Absentminded, I did the crossword,
filling “working” into 15-across
even though it should have been “useable.”

I did not get the chance to correct myself.

III.
My knees in the air and without any panties on,
we discussed Benizir Bhutto’s
assassination before the doctor filled
the syringe and the room
went momentarily fuzzy.

The machine lisped,
the wailing welling in me
like an old Armenian woman
who’d mourn for years to come
the quiet renting in that tiny room.
But I only managed a gasping wince
before it was over and I was told
I’d be back to normal soon.

IV.
The hollow spaces in me:
walls I didn’t know,
cavities I thought filled in
by connective tissue and millions of platelets,
ached from dilation
and the unsteady slurp
of being sucked (almost) dry.

Even the slow wet gulp
of a clogged drain
swallowing the last of my shower
is sinister in how it reminds me
of the sounds
the anesthesia could not block.

V.
Every conversation we’ve had
since I left so early that morning
without leaving a note
to say where I’d be
or for how long I’d be gone,
has been an ellipsis.

What I could say to women
I’d never met, but not to you,
echoes in me when you ask
how’ve I’ve been
and why I didn’t call when
I was in town.

VI.
Lately, I feign headaches to be alone
and wake, flushed, from fitful sleep
and from dreams where my hands
or nose or ears are missing
and no one notices but me.

I am still waiting for the normal
I was promised weeks ago.

VII.
These grapes, bagged
in unrepentantly happy clusters
don’t know their role in this—
what I buy to avoid
coming home with less
than when I left.

Let me know what you think...all three of you.