Holes which once held
by Megan Jones
[ poetry - may 08 ]
Grandma claims crabapples are inedible, useless; she doesn't see
the fruit I'm palming, little sister hiding bruised in the bushes.
Produce aisles remind me that each fruit bears its own
cost, bruised flesh collapsing toward the holes which once held seed.
Even chewing our own back feet out of the trap with un-
holy confusion is better than collapsing into the sold hole He wants.
A limb lost always brings the phantom - the knot where missing begins;
bloodied limbs and a green thumb pointing the way to the holy ghost.
Mother carves fruit with the bloodied sword edge of aggregate doubts,
swallowing
the parameters of an uneven slice, while her ribcage hides in the bushes,
naked.
With the swords set to spinning, He pulps the fleshless fruit of
sin under His thumb, watches it drip between His fingers, doubts himself.
