the pomengranate is my patron saint
the one i bow & pray to every night,
who grants me every blessing,
the one who assuages my every sorrow.
These folded hands, bloody red, are my witness,
marking resurrection of all fruit within.
I twist it across my rough hewn hands
calloused by years of labor over the endless green
of cucumber, tobacco and thick fisted corn.
Her seeds catch crimson in the gaps of my teeth
Pink dreams run down my ruddy cheeks, its stain of grace
rolls off as I savor the purple bitter bite.
Each pit is spit out like a new commandment.
You and I are brothers, so i share my half of the
shrunk gift, vermillion lipped, rubbed bruise raw
across the shredded meat.
This is a communion of a stolen tongue,
& a frantic heartbeat that burns within me.