At the farmer's market the grocer has decided
to give me a Bible lesson as I fumble for my wallet
to purchase a squash.
This one is called the Crown of Thorns, he says,
to remind us of the cross, and here are ten spokes,
one for each of the commandments.
I give the grocer his money, but my sympathy is
with the squash, whose nature has been hijacked
by religion. It fills my palm
with its hefty promise and I suspect it of knowing
the true art of resurrection—seeds packed
into a sinewy cave,
where the pulp is so fragrant that time holds still.
When I split the ovum with a knife I reveal
a space so private
that I am embarrassed to have looked, flesh as pale
as the new moon, and an aroma so seminal that
it stains all thought.
With the sharp edge of a spoon, I scrape out the seeds,
and then holding the soft entrails in one hand
throw it all to the birds.