Day 3,063

She cracks open a note
to see what’s inside.
Not that she would understand
the springs and pistons
responsible for a change

in key. Or the reflection
of a hidden spiral
stair in a window pane. A plate
of them—may as well be pomegranate
seeds or whole ginger.

She’s left to contemplate
a next step, forget
let it be.

Slender Language

As I become a lake
in a river, I narrow
my view to lines broken 

by bridges, galvanized
steel spider
webs over my head. 

I would forget the Liffey,
Erie Canal, pomegranate
seeds tucked inside a secret 

pocket of stolen narration.
Would recall another Retreat
Drive and wish 

to be remembered
for the scent of rosewater,
not the words I couldn’t 

say slowly enough
to make you pause.

Acquiring Taste

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.