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.


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