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.