I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask,
Mother, what was war?

Eve Merriam

Mots clés war child mother

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Don't be polite.
Bite in.
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.
For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.

Eve Merriam

Mots clés poem eating

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