If you gave me a pomegranite,
Oh, I would devour it;
crush ruby tears between my teeth
and swallow greedily,
burrowing for more,
sticky crimson trickling down
to the thirsty earth.
Give me an apple
and I will plunge into its pale flesh,
searching for the seeds; and,
when I find them,
would bite into bitterness as sweet
and as deadly in excess
as your love.
Six seeds, you say?
I would eat six thousand,
six thousand thousands
To blister and char and be consumed
by your desire.
And now: you hand me one pomegranite,
its skin rough and mottled as yours
and with as many cuts,
and your gaze of smoke and fire burns me.
I take my first and final bite.
My mother turns and stumbles away.
She cannot see for grief.