Heretic That I Am

Tomás Q. Morín

Three days now the mold（霉菌，模子） 

 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（受洗礼的） 

 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（疲劳） 

 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（保险储藏格） too, and does 

 it goosestep（正步走） 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 moonshot, 

 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（顽强的） 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.