a stained glass veil
shades my skin
in vivid green
while sugars fly
down a crooked slide
to fill my pitted middle.
my screened recess
escapes the gaze,
saves me for a market day,
from bruise and scar,
from wanderers in outside flight
whose nibbles spoil the appetite.
the orchard sunlight flew
like hymns through church glass,
until that day
in a scarred market
where buyers bought and bit,
hands handled velvet delicates,
the harvest, gathered in a raveled bag,
framed on a stage
as pale as bone
with looks askance at my
unblemished flesh,
I sat sidelined from the rest.
Two steps left they took instead
to a basket blaze of red, they say
I'm far too perfect to eat.
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