With Pomegranates

What had been a cape was now a clamp
All was too damp too tight

And the room turned a nuclear hue of iridescence

She pecked at the trails of conversation
Wore ballet slippers in the snow

And the sun stretched itself out like a welcome guest

She wrote essays to the gods
Drank coffee with them
On the porch outside her house
Amused by their jokes
Amused by the vanishing trees
The new diseases they invented
Or made resistant to penicillin

Walking the harsh diagonal past the booze
Food was the one thing beckoning

A slice of bread
A few morsels of whatever was in season

Who could deny what a pomegranate was?

Who could describe how it felt
To sense the redness enter
The inner quarters of the self?

Groping for words

No longer needing them

Copyright © 2003 Bobbi Lurie All rights reserved
from The Book I Never Read
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Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission