Poetry 152: The Confession of an Apricot

The Confession of an Apricot

by Carl Adamshick

I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story. This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies. This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper. After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within. Flesh helping stone turn tree. I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world. I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.