December

Issue 51

Inferno Gather in the growing things, hoard as you can, unsure if gifts once given will turn to vipers. Keep a pile of pyrite as a dragon does its bed. And the fruit that ripens on your spirit’s tree will deepen, will purple in fullness; but plucked it turns to worms, opened it gives birth to countless crawlers, a cup that runs over with filth. Paradiso Gather in growing things; in the magic of sweat transform grains to bread and beer, fruit to jams, to wine. Spread a table as a crucible to multiply food, invite the least, which is each of us. And the fruit will open, expand, pour out a river of foods, a flood with no drowning. New shoots rise from this deeper alchemy.