Lessons, Poetry

Pomegranate.

it was in the dark stairwell

of an old apartment building

where i drunkenly sang myself blue

for a beautiful woman whose naked lips tasted

of fresh marlboro reds

and pressed pomegranate oil


when i woke this morning

the smell of her supple skin lingered faintly still on my pillow

and on my red-purple stained tongue

in my pores is where

i’ve  tucked away what i can remember of her warm laughter

 

for breakfast i ate the last of my pomegranate

i ate it ate it ate it all up like a good girl

and with each plastic spoonful of small seeds I crushed and swirled and swallowed

i grew poems for her in the tight gaps

between my soft yellowing teeth

i said amen and three hail marys after my sin

i don’t remember much of catholic school

just the guilt that wilts away the white of your eyeballs


now my hardening belly is swollen and bursting

with a desire that aches to be harvested

there is a hundred acre orchard erecting in the well opening of my parted legs

it is thick and viciously green and waiting patiently to be plucked

you can smell the ripening of it whenever

i breathe out the smoke in her name


she says pomegranates are her favourite fruit

i grin and she smiles and we grin-smile at one another

atop an antique rooftop somewhere in rural upstate new york

this is the only way she can stay and I can stay and we can stay together in this moment

without setting fire to everything that we own

and do not own yet


i think i’ll charr my pomegranate for dinner tonight

last night I stained my only white shirt with red wine

life is a complicated messy little creature

sometimes it will have you brushing elbows and touching knees

with strangers dive bars at sunday noontime

 

is it absurd

wanting to burn down every goddamn shrub

and flower bulb in my garden



(just to taste her again?)

 

By: LKM (18.)

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