The Charity of Fruit
By Caroline Adele O'Brien
The closer he comes, the further I drift.
He sits amongst the mold--
A sort of molten lava on a cheeseboard.
Life pours from his ears.
His fingers curl outward.
He hoards potatoes in his clutches.
He melts into the walls,
Becomes trees, then fruit.
His apple is forbidden; he shares lemons.
We knew Him once as King.
Now, he is Jehovah, the Messiah, Himself.
He dances on salt, hovering over a tea-cup.
Religion becomes him.
Charity rocks him to sleep, high in the boughs,
Shifting softly in the sugary pine.
We will never be alone.