i see a photo of a pumpkin that looks like Jesus

a carrot resembling an astronaut

a bifurcated turnip that could win

a lovely legs competition
on wish dot com there is a plastic mould

that shapes pears into Buddhas

so i buy one for all my close friends

and we have a party to consume

our enlightened fruits
            on the radio there is a famous psychic

            who says Amelia Earheart isn’t dead

            she is living in a cloud-world

            populated by ancient deities

            the really fertile ones

            which is why the sky

            seems so hormonal all the time

            flushing, leaking, all that zing!
            you can call on 1-800-AVIATE

            and get a free zodiac chart

            written by Amelia

            which seems plausible

            because surely, up in the clouds

            she has a more cosmological outlook

            than almost anyone else i can think of

            guided by the clairvoyance

            of loved-up godheads
                       i call at once

                       to find out what the stars hold for me

                       but the line is busy

                       and then goes dead

                       my future

                                   disconnected
my father has an inflamed gallbladder

in anatomical drawings

it resembles a ripening fig

he asks the doctors to save it

from medical waste

and displays it in his garage

afloat in pink preservative

overseeing his retirement hobbies:

repairing home appliances

riding the peloton

writing a natural history of compost

basking in the glow of

his own vestigial flesh
            finally i get through to Amelia

            i want to know how

            long my father will live

            if he will lose more critical organs

            a lobe of lung

            a kernel of pancreas

            and whether i should look for

            the shape of meaning in them

            symbols or icons

            major or minor miracles

            the face of god that appears

            sometimes in damp walls

            tree trunks

            and toast
                       she tells me that all organic matter

                       is a constellation

                       an enzyme can be an effigy

                       your heredity a hagiography

                       the world is mostly flesh

                       of one kind or another

                       with enough ambiguity in between

                       to make a miraculous

                       mess
            Amelia says she’ll mail me

            an astrological chart

            a tea cleanse

            and a reiki doll

            to soothe my existential woe
the line goes dead

and all i hear

is the signal tone

myself

munching down on

my reborn pear

wondering if my beatific colon

counts for

or against

on my scorecard

of piety