You reach into the harvest of moons
on a March morning, plucking them—
luminous melons to caress and admire
before knifing their thick skins
that mirror your thin-skinned hollowing
when the words of the Beloved cut
so close to the bone that your sinews
barely survive the slicing,
that seeks the seeds buried
beneath onioned layers of fallow flesh,
too long turgid in weightlessness.
These moonskinned seeds burrow roots
in star patterns to catch the Beloved’s
invasive gaze that heal the wounds
made at the harvest of your morning.
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