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weight on the pulpit. Grooves smile at me sideways from the golden moon of its crooked handle. (A boney finger a child latches onto.) He scoops out seeds to salt and bake, scrapes pulp with pointed spoons-then finally with bare hands lashes the stubborn walls. Each chafe a confession, each fistful a baptism. Firm insides scraped out like sin to be scooped away. Innards cling like cobwebs, insides are never clean. Lit from within to glow translucent singeing the inside cut smile curling like charred skin.