Father Berrigan ate an apple from stem to seeds.
That is a man who has lived in prison,
I wondered about cyanide in seeds. I wondered
about blood on files and missiles, the Baltimore Four,
the Catonsville Nine, all during the time
he sat, long-limbed,
talking, planning to act again.
His brother also a priest. Thorns
in the church’s claws. Blunt swords
in its spleen. And now
he sits, reclaiming apples from Eden.
The church declines to saint them.