Cordelia Hanemann
Saved by Cezanne’s Apples
The apples lie there, larger than life, apples, leaping from the canvas, so many canvases, so many apples — tempting; you paint them, those apples, over and over, like real apples you eat and eat again, each bite of apple bursting anew in your mouth; each brush stroke creating anew your artful apple, each dab of color, an apple mood; motion of heart, hand, arm, eye-to-apple, you paint them --apples--forever, until you are surrounded: apples that squat — stolid and bold — in bowls, on tables, apples suspended in air, hung on walls — there they all are: watchful apples, apples poised, permanent, hungry, between you and the door.
Cordelia Hanemann
Black Woman Poet Visits Dead White Woman Writer’s House in Georgia: A Found Poem Reading Alice Walker
Andalusia* is a large white house at the top of a hill with a view.
It is a kept house, and there are, indeed, peacocks strutting about.
Behind, an unpainted house within calling distance of the back door….
No one lives there now.
I go up to the porch and knock.
That her house still stands while mine, which, of course, we never owned, is slowly rotting into du st…. But, I am here, and rage dissipates into the hot humid air of a Georgia day and the hollow sound of my shoes down the worn wooden steps.
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