Heretic That I Am by Tomás Q. Morín

Heretic That I Am

Three days now the mold

has advanced across the face

of the peach I caught

with one hand like Willie Mays,

saving it from the sidewalk

and its army of black shoes

and how could it happen

that my peach turned

into Castro, the young one

who regularly baptized

the microphone and the first row

of sleepy workers with his spit

and anger and love. What is love

if not a commitment to fatigues

and I wonder if he wears sea green trunks

to the beach or olive pajamas

with padded feet? I have to know

if mold lives in his crisper too, and does

it goosestep even in that temple

of cleanliness before which he kneels

and hunts the last rebellious

grape unwilling to bear the tyranny

of vines. This morning I am

the one kneeling and praying

in the kitchen over the beard

of my communist peach, how

it’s a second cousin of the hacky sack,

albeit spongier, like a meatball,

which reminds me the letter M

is for Marx, and for moon shot,

and for miracle. And sooner or later,

M is also for mercy, mercy we have

beauty, mercy we can’t live forever,

mercy we have time and rot

to work our stubborn flesh away

from the bald, pale soul

that screams with joy when it pops up

and free toward the first night

of October in Indian summer.