King Solomon’s Overture

 Behind the veils, sheared of pretense,
he browses among the lilies,

setting his nostrils to petals, his tongue
to the ridges of gold, one pale night

after another, to watch the temples
of pomegranate rise and fall away

like a pulse in a bed of spices, cardamom,
ginger, and a hint of soon, reflected

in the new moon, the quickening
breath of crushed apples.

First published in “A Tongue Full of Yeses,”
by Mary Hutchins Harris

From what is offered us

 If you’re not expecting to get lucky,
but hoping just the same,
a bite of apple is not a bad way to start,
no matter what the old tales say,
the warnings about poison
brought to life in shiny red
that blinds us to reason, to the swaying
of trees as the afternoon turns itself
to evening, so we must pick
from what is offered us,
whether we stumble across it or it comes
quivering in the palm of a stranger,
not because we hear the music swell
but because we can’t wait for salt to burn
our lips--juice, drip down our chins.

First published in “A Tongue Full of Yeses,”
by Mary Hutchins Harris