The Artichoke (The Paris Review)

I just love artichokes, and found a poem this morning on the Paris Review about one. I couldn’t resist sharing it. The obsession knows no bounds.

The first time I saw it, I thought what an ugly specimen. It looked like Grandmaโ€™s bathing cap, grown green and small after all these years. I sliced it open and tasted the pale flesh. And gradually she offered herself up leaf by leaf. In her depth she held a tiny, faded star, a spark that fell in the meteor shower over Frankโ€™s garden. I developed a taste for her expensive style: fancy restaurants, wines by candlelight. Continue reading

Advertisements