Everyone assumes the
painting of the cherries
is about the fruit and
not the bowl. Or never concerning
the pit that’s ever-lurking—
like a landmine for your throat.
My uncle choked on one.
The stem, that is.
So consumed with
fretting about the middle.
Of the bowl, I mean.
Belonging to my aunt;
the scratch that he inflicted,
for which he blamed the cat.
When Molly came back home—
newly declawed—
unable to use her paws to
snag the mice, his remorse
hung in the air just like
a candelabra’s sway,
one on which his
daughter knit a noose.
The man from Delouse the Mouse
also peddled chandeliers.
Maybe Titorenkov
is a light year beyond
the curve. Maybe what is
grand is plainly shrouded,
like a parable
from a viridescent
knoll.
Maybe he’s Picasso’s
second coming. Dali 2.0
& we’ve been clueless—
that life is anything but
a bowl of cherries;
that he’s done wonders
with bananas; grapes
and an apple core;
his every stroke a lesson:
A humdrum, static bounty
is seldom what it seems—
speaks of utopic forfeiture;
a cherub’s searing
blade; our nudity
now impure;
the price of
a reckless bite.
Andreas Gripp
March 23, 2026
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