Grape Sherbet by Rita Dove


The day? Memorial.

After the grill

Dad appears with his masterpiece—

swirled snow, gelled light.

We cheer. The recipe's

a secret, and he fights

a smile, his cap turned up

so the bib resembles a duck.



That morning we galloped

through the grassed-over mounds

and named each stone

for a lost milk tooth. Each dollop

of sherbet, later,

is a miracle,

like salt on a melon that makes it sweeter.



Everyone agrees-it's wonderful!

It's just how we imagined lavender

would taste. The diabetic grandmother

stares from the porch, a torch

of pure refusal.



We thought no one was lying

there under our feet,

we thought it

was a joke. I've been trying

to remember the taste,

but it doesn't exist.

Now I see why

you bothered,

father.

The diabetic grandmother

stares from the porch, a torch

of pure refusal.