Granada
Centuries before it will become
the symbol of a triumphant queen
and her evangelical fervor
the fruit stains a woman’s fingers.
Her lips. Her cheek.
A ruby red spot on the stone floor
of the courtyard. She separates
the seeds. Sweet like
honeycomb. Tart with juices.
She offers them, an act
of love, to her husband. He
has returned from prayer.
They plant a prophecy that
bursts between the teeth.
The Parable of the Woods
They say never
use the stairwells
in parking garages.
Red hoodie or no,
never run on the
wooded trails alone.
Keep your keys
in your hand
as a weapon.
For creatures and criminals
lurk in the mulberry bushes.
Carry the mace Thisbe forgot.
Draw a map —
X marks the spot —
to your body.
For flirting with men
sometimes means
flirting with danger,
they say, especially
in the woods,
where so quickly
the erotic
can become violent.
Little deaths,
big ones.
Saint Sebastian
There is a blister
on the side of his foot
where his sandal has rubbed.
Centurion
running the Roman Road.
These muscle twinges
will be nothing
compared to the arrows.
The clubs.
The chemo
that has compelled them
to invoke the saints.
