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On Cunningham's Wire Sculpture with Lemons

Cara Dees | Poetry

Gentled now, the lemons            dream smooth

in their uterine sweep          of steel, damp pips

looped in place,          their swift acid

at a loss, shock          of pith turned low

to gray. Otherwise          they’d roll on

& on, a wayward tumble,          juice gnawing rust

through to the lens.          This is why the steel

cradles the fruit water-            tender, its shadow

thawing just enough            to hint to its clutch –

sharp, raw as spring –          a future spilling.