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.