aged plum petals, pressure pressed
below bowed brown eyes belong to the woman in my mirror
cooked in her cold night sweat, she awoke
dried, preserved in pieces of stale salt.
Eve’s iron rivers bleed blue beneath bronze skin,
fortified from splinters of Adam’s brittle bones and moth-eaten marrow.
general of our earth and his
heaven sends
insurgents every seven years bearing
jubilee, knowing the proclaimed present will go untouched and unopened.
Kurds of sweet smoked cheddar’n chives toast slowly on dry Turkey,
loosely wetting
minority tongues, living off sips of thin Spring water.
NATO crackles through radio, invading my focus on soggy Life cinnamon squares with bombs
out in southern Afghanistan; the
priceless crusade payment is nonrefundable and nondeductible.
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