Last dry season, the world was new
and I was small,
and the spaces weren’t spaces but bits of sky between clouds
so there may be suns pomegranates on the horizon,
sliced pomegranates that bled a little into the sea.
You were never so beautiful
as when you watched me fell our trees,
brushed the sand from my sandals.
I have ceased to be small
and only the kitchen table is new,
dull chrome like an autopsy table,
— even when the pomegranates are whole.