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2013 poetry chapbook How a Bullet
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Sour Grapes
Cara Losier Chanoine
When I was three years old,
I choked on a grape.
I was surprised, but to be fair,
I did try to swallow it whole.
The culprit was the texture.
I couldn’t stand the way that grapes burst
between my baby teeth,
like overfilled water balloons,
the thin strips of skin intermingling
with the pale, watery entrails.
My mother was a registered nurse,
but her first reaction was still
to lift me by my ankles with one hand
while bringing down the other against my lungs
in frenzied, wide-palmed thumps.
The pressure of my blood made me feel like
an uncorked bottle of champagne,
but then the grape slipped free.
It rolled out off my tongue as though
I were an oyster giving up a pearl.
Afterwards, I refused to eat grapes
unless they were peeled.
When no one volunteered
to do this for me,
I peeled them with my fingernails;
small, painstaking strips.
Eventually, I gave them up altogether.
I felt deceived by how easily their rubbery resilience
could be crushed.