Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Ave Maria

Scent of sweet
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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