as i swallow

the last morsel of a little green apple

blessed with myrrhed prayers & libations on an african altar

in a gothic cathedral

where with banners from all corners of our country

freed from the prejudice of a dozen years’ politics of greed

thousands gather on king’s day

to ground sorrow at a sister’s recent passing

(lorde we testify)

drum up her spirit along a cascading rainbow

to the orishas’ paradise

the juice snakes sweetly down my throat & circles my veins

it loosens my tingling toes stiffened

by neuropathy

armed only with a white candle that flares its last flames

i march out into the dark hell of

our big apple

I’m bareheeled and also not bareheeled,

I see the whiteness of the church wall.

Ignore the gentleman with the hat, the gentleman with

the hat turns into death.

The gentleman also gargles.

He grinds his eyes

and arranges them. The apricots remain

in his palms. Would we try to order

something? If gasoline is spilled only on

the windbreaker, does only the windbreaker burn?