Jenny Grassl

THE SWEET COAX OF BITTER ALMOND

 

It is not easy to give birth
without a womb—    

world yolk, rib break, clone.
A father’s couvade.

I could throw a peach pit wet
and furred onto lawn, make a Georgia.

I am never careless like that.
Sometimes, I was         deliberate—

sticking toothpick into avocado
until its heart broke into flame.

Twice I spun children
out of romance and fork-tender.

I’ve seen apple pips and hair combs
sprout a town, then their factories ghost

weed-alive of the dead. Sweat
still tastes like brick and copper penny.

Tell me shivery countries found or founder
in the foam of men.       Upon a tiny time

of flagella. I’ll swear it is not random.      
Nor is the cull of the great once of wars.

 

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