Spring 1998 • Vol. XX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1998 |


Oh lovely matter, meager, half-rotten, I held a pomegranate once, my hands cupped inside another's hands. But I could not be loved like that, locked song, nor love, but saved rooms in myself to dust for nothing, nothing, that I might own parts of myself to squander or inherit, as one inherits lemon groves, fine feet, a house of stone discovered in a wandering, the table, the bed, pulled also out of stone, where I could live months away from my husbands!—there sleep, grow strange, of many minds inside a memory, never to be relieved of the burden of being, nor changed, nor taken up, not in this lifetime. Glacial, the pomegranate, my harbinger of these brilliant, barren years— scrotal you pomegranate, given to long rot and yet too delicate, recreant, a sack of stars.

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