I want to share with you
my hidden place
A still, clear pond on the edge of a wood.

Kneel down in the rich loam.
Tadpoles wiggle their way through the litter
and try to grow their legs and lungs and ears.   

Close your eyes.
Do you feel the ripple strides of the insects walking like Christ?
Each turn on the water writing a new gospel.   

Bow your head.
The gentle burbling of birdsong anoints us like lilac oil  
and fills our souls with golden hope.

A supple tree gazes upon us two
her spine curves with expectant weight:
pomegranates bright as blood. 

We break them open
On our tongues the seeds that we placed
burst and spill vital red poison.
Our lips and fingers stained and sticky with death  
we fall. 

Now the pond lies silent.
How could we know?  

all that remains is a mirage
the truth of it miasma and rot.  

You are in a bar when the fruit splits anew
poison burning you away.
Your skin grows pale,
hands shaking in their own grasp,
as you pray for deliverance from the insatiable ache.

Your lover lifts a small Styrofoam cup to your lips:
Fresh water.