I loved pomegranates.
Kisses, old writing stuck
On the green table by my window.
Three left in the glass bowl.
Each day another closes in on itself…
My curled hand to continue a word or two…
Into the sting that comes from cutting sweetness.
They’re turning into filthy baseballs…
Throw ‘em away by the end of the week.
Three strikes, and I’m out…
Of blood.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.