The Pomegranate Eaters
When we are having breakfast
your voice oscillates and I’d swear
you can throw it
into the stretch of the galaxy,
embed it in one of Saturn’s moons.
Your serrated voice
could cut a coconut in two, could split
a pomegranate like it were hot butter
and it sounds desperate,
like you’re bathing in its drink.
Your fingers are purpled and pulp, there’s
rind under your nails.
Your feverish eyes swell, your throat
perspires, the temperature rises
and then you dig in.
Comments
Hmmm sounds like a person I have known. Your descriptions are awesome! xoxo
This bites!
Execellent!! Lol…was this written whilst emerging from a hangover…the grating voice? made me smile!!
W-O-W. LOVE your use of language, brilliant metaphor. amazing poem. she sounds like a real peach. lol
It takes a certain skill to entwine your reader from the first stanza, and have them greedily scroll down for more, more, more…..you have that, utterly and completely. Loved this.