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.