Thursday, November 24, 2016


In her hand, a dish of pomegranate seeds.

And the dish is the earth,
And the seeds are men,
And she is the one who made them.

And the dish is a pond,
And the seeds are leaves on the water,
And her face is a reflection made by the moon.

And the pond is blood,
And the leaves are spirits looking on,
And the moon is the nearest, softest thing imaginable.

And I am mad,
And she takes me to her breast,
And the dish and the seeds are a fable.

And the fable is a pomegranate flower,
And she is a hummingbird,
And I am the space between two clouds.

And the space is a star,
And the star hangs from a necklace,
And this is how she enters the room.

And the room is history,
And history is summed up in a smile,
And love is a bright-red seed on her tongue.

And I could say more,
And I could go on,
And I won’t, just now.

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