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A stone fruit, nearly
midnight blue, is a globe
in my hand, shipped
from a country where
many souls are Catholic,
like Mexico or Spain,
now that our plum season
is past, and I wonder if I
will be remembered
when I am past, thought of
as among the faithful — though
not Catholic, or Christian, or
will I be as the white
gauze smear in the crease
of this plum, (like the cloud
that shawls the earth) — ghostly,
adding nothing essential
to a bite’s sweet prayer, yet
seeming necessary somehow
to the plum, to my rubbing thumb,
to my mute stone tongue, and
to the redemption of the sphere.
Poetry should be heard.
Posted for dVerse's Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Go there and read other poem-worlds. Yay, poetry pub!
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