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San Pantaleimon swallowed pomegranate seeds
seeds resewn by San Isidro -
set his blood in reliquary glass
to bristle anew for the sake of the plough.
The chips of bitter bone
embedded in blood swollen lanterns,
a mouthful will fill a bowl
enamel white with red liquid answers.

Everyone around me grew sick as a pig -
I had to carry them home.
Never saw crystal blood flow warm,
never bathed in Valencia or further south
where oranges, mangled, and pigs' throats
fill the lanterns that dim snakepit bars

toward dusk. A long gargle
of chestnut paste, the most dry aluminum
later, saw me fevered sleep
on the red clay floor of a frozen friend.
She was swallowing three languages,
choking in one man's Ibiza sunset,
swishing two Moroccan mothers in her mouth,
skin a new hue of almond husk,
orange peel and pomegranate juice.

It was no season of catastrophe,
yet we never returned after the pilgrimage
we took in prior years to lift
a healthy fig tree up to the sun.

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from History Lessons, Vol​.​1: 74​.​25" Poems, released January 19, 2012

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