Still finding funny old titles as I slooowwlly clean up my shelves. No idea where I got half of them, like this one—Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle (Scholastic, 1966). On the inside cover is written, not in my handwriting: English 311, Mrs. Hart. This is always a bonus; I like having an idea what a book’s been up to, imagining who might have read it and why and whether or not it made a difference.
But then every book makes some, even-if-only-so-small-it-seems-insignificant, difference, does it not?
How to Eat a Poem
Don’t be polite.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.
You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth.
For there is no core
to throw away.