Pomegranates
Sunday I watched his fingers gracefully
pluck the small crimson seeds
of a pomegranate for you.
Is love just a bloody sacrifice?
Fingers stained red drenched
in afternoon light
soft through your kitchen window.
I find it hard to breathe in moments of peace.
When it seems like love is there,
just out of my grasp.
Coated on your teeth, the sides
of the bowl with the pomegranate seeds.
Why do I watch with such separation
when I am in the kitchen
eating oranges by the slice
calling on love like it’s my god?
Oh great Divine thing,
Save me from myself.
Open my eyes like a prophet
let me see you in his hands
In the late summer fruit
In your eyelashes
and in everything.
-
Comments