I’m finally seeing someone,
she says it quietly
I was tapping a pomegranate
with the heavy handle
of a kitchen knife
(It loosens the seeds I’d told her)
carefully, I put the knife down
then glance at her,
she’s flushed from the heat,
skin almost translucent
taut over her cheeks,
like god airbrushed her face
to make the best of bones
there’s a furrow between
her brows, an abyss
where my words have tipped over
and disappeared; she’s waiting
I shrug, and she grabs the fruit
slams it on the work counter
then splits it open, there’s
liquid rage in her eyes
the ruby juice bloodies
her hands, she chuckles,
a sad sound, but she’s smiling
running a sticky finger
down the side of my face
I’m ten again
at the crocodile farm
it’s so hot, I remember
sweat behind my knees as I squat,
so bright, I’m squinting
to look at the reptiles
my brother throws a small rock
at a sleeping crocodile
(not to hurt, just to stir it)
a drop of dark blood slides
slowly down its rough stony cheek
it doesn’t even flinch
I want to be like that
Note: In Greek mythology, the pomegranate was known as the «fruit of the dead» and believed to have sprung from the blood of Adonis. – google
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