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Luci Shaw


O

O my scarlet carnation,
your iron-fresh scent, and the torn,
spiked edges of your dying
outflesh for me the colors
of God's blood, God's body.

O my sharp clove,
your dark nail probes my hand.
You stud my open palm (a small, pink
Easter ham) with poignancy, pinning me to
your final clench of cross-pain.

O my asparagus—
with the cleansing sprinkle of your fern,
your up-greening from the ground,
your stalked asperity under the butter sauce—
awaken me to resurrection.

O my avocado,
your vegetable comfort calls my name.
Teach me the colors of growing. Within
your purpled leather rind disclose
your sumptuous spirit, your oil-hearted seed.

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