Ode to a Pomegranate

Summary

Sweet sequins

turned strange and delicate,

such feverish capsules!

Sita's shy dowry stones.

And rubies, brilliant rubies,

vials of pure narcotic, secreted

by fragments of daybreak.

Fat drops of rain

captured

in your tiny pink purses.

You are such found things:

many estranged souls,

unborns ticking

in blisters of heat.

Our own misremembered

firelit tongues or

chambers of

caught songs.

And an infant globe,

in our palms, shows us

the vastness of things,

turmoil of the earth –

who knows what memory

is stored in its skin

like the tips

of my mother's fingernails

opening, cleaving, intimate with you.