For a month, I have been living here,and often sit near the back bedroomwall, mice scuttling behind
the tiny framed self portrait of Rembrandt,laughing, skin crinkled like gold leaf.He’s Zeuxis in that one, I think—
Zeuxis and Parrhasius, I rememberthe contest between them, how Zeuxispainted grapes so true—what do I mean here?—
that birds flew down to feed, yet Parrhasiusdepicted a curtain concealing his work,the verisimilitude fooling his competitor.
Yet of the two paintings, I’d most wantto see the grapes, not a curtain, of course,these grapes clustered purple, reminding
me of walking with Marcel, one or twoblocks away from here, the mulberriesbloodied on the sidewalk. My son—
he gathered in his small hands the fruitfermenting, this wild sweet melt, this jam scooped from the ground.
It’s true. There were no birds.About our backyard beech, my fatheronce told…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, July/August 2023