Ekphrasis on a Still Life by Alexander Titorenkov

Everyone assumes the

painting of the cherries

is about the fruit and

not the bowl. Or never concerning

the pit that’s ever-lurking—

like a landmine for your throat.

My uncle choked on one.

The stem, that is.

So consumed with

fretting about the middle.

Of the bowl, I mean.

Belonging to my aunt;

the scratch that he inflicted,

for which he blamed the cat.

When Molly came back home—

newly declawed—

unable to use her paws to

snag the mice, his remorse

hung in the air just like

a candelabra’s sway,

one on which his

daughter knit a noose.

The man from Delouse the Mouse

also peddled chandeliers.

Maybe Titorenkov

is a light year beyond

the curve. Maybe what is

grand is plainly shrouded,

like a parable

from a viridescent

knoll.

Maybe he’s Picasso’s

second coming. Dali 2.0

& we’ve been clueless—

that life is anything but

a bowl of cherries;

that he’s done wonders

with bananas; grapes

and an apple core;

his every stroke a lesson:

A humdrum, static bounty

is seldom what it seems—

speaks of utopic forfeiture;

a cherub’s searing

blade; our nudity

now impure;

the price of

a reckless bite.

Andreas Gripp

March 23, 2026

Alexander Titorenkov