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Heretic That I Am


Three days now the mold
has advanced across the face
of the peach I caught
with one hand like Willie Mays,
saving it from the sidewalk
and its army of black shoes
and how could it happen
that my peach turned
into Castro, the young one
who regularly baptized
the microphone and the first row
of sleepy workers with his spit
and anger and love. What is love
if not a commitment to fatigues
and I wonder if he wears sea green trunks
to the beach or olive pajamas
with padded feet? I have to know
if mold lives in his crisper too, and does
it goosestep even in that temple
of cleanliness before which he kneels
and hunts the last rebellious
grape unwilling to bear the tyranny
of vines. This morning I am
the one kneeling and praying
in the kitchen over the beard
of my communist peach, how
it's a second cousin of the hacky sack,
albeit spongier, like a meatball,
which reminds me the letter M
is for Marx, and for moonshot,
and for miracle. And sooner or later,
M is also for mercy, mercy we have
beauty, mercy we can't live forever,
mercy we have time and rot
to work our stubborn flesh away
from the bald, pale soul
that screams with joy when it pops up
and free toward the first night
of October in Indian summer.


Tomás Q. Morín

The Threepenny Review

Fall 2013


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