By Kindra McDonald (PDF view)
 
The youth pastor holds it up
orange terracotta, October sun,
the heavy thud of its solid weight
on the pulpit.
Grooves smile at me sideways
from the golden moon of its crooked handle.
(A boney finger a child latches onto.)
He scoops out seeds to salt and bake,
scrapes pulp with pointed spoons–
then finally with bare hands lashes the stubborn
walls. Each chafe a confession, each fistful
a baptism. Firm insides scraped out like
sin to be scooped away.
Innards cling like cobwebs,
insides are never clean.
Lit from within
to glow translucent
singeing the inside
cut smile
curling like charred skin.
 

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