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APPALONEA / Robert Wrigley Appalonea Miller Voisin (1840-1903) There may have been a time when your name went unnoticed: Amethyst, Hortensia, and Emerald Maisie Hopes were your chums, your names sparkling off the page like so much paste and silver plate. The Chinese say you are not truly dead until the last soul who knew your name forgets it. Somehow we misplaced yours against remarkable odds: a name like a bird that sings its own, or conjures up music and hard fruit. Winesap, Golden Delicious, the loud applause of wind in the dry leaves of autumn. But not a single shining image of the human face. Grandfather's grandmother, anyone we both knew is dead now, and rooting through certificates and microfilm we've found every vital statistic but your face. So I talk, and your name is the only answer. Appalonea. Apotheosis of appellations, a plum of pure sound. Apollo, Apollonius, Apollonaire. The great Johnny Appleseed who gave us a peachy cider, a press, and a pint of apple jack. I'm drunk in the swirl of your name, the way it applies to everything I see: that strong grayish horse across the field: Appaloosa, a portrait but not a picture, a prize, a poem, Appalonea. 50 ยท The Missouri Review ...


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