I wish I liked the taste
of pomegranate seeds
in a dish, would become
an object of seasonal fertility,
object of someone’s desire,
if I could only dismiss 

the sour burning
on my tongue.
I cannot. He kisses me—
my lips still stinging
from the pulp—full
on the mouth. I wish 

I could hold onto
the taste, know it
pleases and frightens
all the senses,
know it signals
a message within: 

This is going to be harder than you think, this acquiring
a resistance to his taste.