Lesley Dame
May 2012

They say it was a pomegranate, not an apple,
that brought us all this knowledge. It seems absurd
to us, who spend our autumns peeling and coring,
slicing and heating, burning our fingers as we fill
the clear glass Ball jars. Food of life, we think,
food for thought. We wonder who invented sin.
Who named it. It’s the naming of a thing that makes
it real, makes us feel it close to our skin, tickling.
What would happen if we forgot the words
and began again? What would happen if we didn’t label
each jar but offered them to you, hands open?

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