impatience, the melon
husk holds August
in its pulp;
Hail Mary
full of grace.
The Summer sores,
once close to festering,
now flower thickly,
freely where they
wept; the grove and
graveyard bear
similar swells.
Full are the tombs,
fuller the womb,
the ovum opening'
to strange gust
in the middle of its
breath.
We fail
to understand,
Hail Mary,
Mother of God.
All we recall
is ripeness, long
awaited in the stalls,
plum, peach,
or apricot still firm
against our thumb.
Pray, pray for us
now and in the
hour
Wait, it is not yet
time.
(c)Sofia F. Starnes 2001
from A Commerce of Moments
Pavement Saw Press, Columbus, OH
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