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C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press

Green Grapes

By: Samara Landau

sit on your kitchen counter

adjacent to your mother and me

as we sit and talk and pretend

that when she leaves the room,

I will not lean over the ceramic bowl,

reach for you

and kiss you with a power

she would not expect, with the same

lips that passively eat her green grapes.

It is a comfort

for her, I think,

to know that this

fruit in the bowl

will occupy her teeth

and her tongue to keep her

from asking me with curious,

confused eyes what love and sex

look like to me, to you.

She will never ask.

A relief to her, the knowing,

that upon returning to this table,

the bowl will be refilled.

But, she cannot hide what

the green grapes do for her.

Without them,

she would have nothing

to distract her desire.

Funny, though,

what I see,

when we both reach for the bowl:

the circular flesh of each grape’s body

on the stem is so clear to me.

She plucks one.

I see the juice drip from her lips

the slow tilt of her neck

the easing of her shoulders

the flux of her lids

the praise she awards each bite with

an accomplished— mmmmm

I place a grape between

my teeth taking the time

to skim the skin until

my molars bite into

the fruit, my tongue

twirling into

the pulp of the grape

so that my mouth

is too full to ask her:

How come then,

you cannot understand

why I love a woman?


Samara Landau is a senior at Skidmore College studying psychology, neuroscience and poetry. Her work will also be published in Beyond Words Magazine. She is currently working on a few projects including editing an LGBTQ+ anthology and a literary journal featuring college students. When she’s not writing, she’s watercoloring or rock climbing. She is now splitting her time between New Jersey and upstate New York.


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