This poem appears in that chapbook.
It's one of Saint Marty's favorites.
What looks like blood from my mouth,
perhaps a tiny spattering from an irritated gum,
is only the apple's inner fruit turning brown
when exposed to air. Both dark, letting into the earth.
As essential as air and water yet not an element,
not fire, but life, juice of the grapes raised
in its place as a sacrament. It is not a peacemaker
or mercenary. It makes its home at opposite poles:
the beginning of violence and the beginning of hope,
one man dead and the other saved.
At either end, someone sends out prayers.
|More to come on this book...|