Merciel

I plant each seed in patches of Eden,
handpicked first fruits from the limbs of the roots
sweetened by the wine of Calypso’s emerald sea,
seasoned with the salt of the mystic saints,
fattened with the manna of warrior cherub,
warmed by the furnace beating at the core.
The tree is chopped into a basket,
forbidden fruit is cooked into a pie,
and a lock of hair is sewn into a bow
and wrapped around the handle.
Then I throw it away when I give it to you,
not a lady, but a swine who digests it all
to the final syllable and responds to it all
with gas you shit out of your mouth.