Posted February 6, 2025
my hand was red where I grasped the apple
I knew better than to cut toward myself
with a knife so sharp it was gentle
eight years later I dreamed I dug my way out
from the crimson roots of a cathedral
hands stained red again this time with dirt
digging until I stood in a miraculous well
surrounded by acres of green and silver
grasses but back then the prick of red
from my finger tasted like transubstantiation
the apple fell close enough to my head
it was the first thing I saw after I blinked
and felt the ceiling lift a decade later
when I retrieved my sword from the stone
in which I left it I anointed it with smears
of unseeded blood naked I struck it
into earth cut the ring of promise and called
beneath tall pines that bright blade my child