Grapes by Frankie Reed
Grapes
Frankie Reed
we hung together —
tight, green,
not yet sweet.
small things,
skin against skin,
no space for air.
you leaned
into every breeze.
I held still.
neither of us said
what we knew
about weight.
we ripened unevenly.
you softened.
I didn’t.
the stalk grew thin
between us.
not broken —
just tired.
when I fell,
there was no sound.
just grass.
just air.
just me,
not where you were.
you stayed.
you always would have.
still facing the light
like it was enough.
if I’d stayed too,
maybe we’d have gone
quietly —
turned dark,
sank sweet
into ourselves.
but I tasted the sour
before it came.
and left
before you noticed.
More from Frankie Reed ↓
- @frankensteins.curios on Instagram
- She is co-curator of Flesh and Parchment, a Liverpool based zine and live poetry event celebrating queer and neurodivergent creativity.
You can listen to me read another poem, titled Skin, by Frankie over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure
Mentioned in this episode:
Write After: National Poetry Month with One Poem Only
Write After is a way to encourage poets to listen and write, and use National Poetry Month to highlight how listening to poetry makes us better poets. I know I write the best when I’m surrounded by beautiful poetry–it’s part of the reason I created this podcast, and I want to encourage others to share this practice. We'll get started in April. You can share to #WriteAfterOPO.
