In our world, pomegranates are bees’ produce.
Structure of honeycomb, kernels combed away.
The sting of passion to latch a kiss.
I slice through layers, body bending
here & there, pluck a seed
here & there, suck long
on juice, watch stain creep
through me like liquid, like sadness
warmed to stick to stomach
walls — the sweet bitterness of leaving
she would have known had her mother not
been a goddess, the bitter
sweetness scavengers accept
as a night’s exodus into day, the separation
from lover’s arms. Still humans are not fruits
and loving is not
leaving. You have come only
to go again like a season swept
in hurricane, an eye trapped
by circumstance hurling. Somewhere
there is a window display of fruit: basket
of apples, a bowl of orange. Outside
the artist’s arrangement, we’ll spy
palms of fruit so red they turn
to night and we’ll pinch
our lips & hear the hunger deep
within our throats, grasping
a gullet beneath & above
this portion of earth.
Image by Jo-Christian-Oterhals
Previously published in Vandal (Food and Migration issue)
