by Arthur Smid

She opens a pomegranate
from the cellar she gives me
her hand. Charles, she calls me
and I fall asleep.

She protects me as I go under.
I have a fish in my mouth.
Alive and golden, so I eat it.
It tastes like saltwater and brine.

I feel suddenly on fire: I see in the dark.
A woman with snakes on her shoulders
sits down and combs her hair.
She knows I’m there.

I walk up and see her basket.
She wants me to take it full of corn.
My Goddess the ripeness. You have a call
holding on line one.


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